#spencer reid x liaison!reader

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

sleeping beauty | s.r. x liaison!fem reader

spencer checked the time and date, one thirty pm on june tenth. he took a deep exhale then pulled open his top desk drawer, staring at him were two tickets for a screening of the french adaptation for sleeping beauty. he remembered you mentioning how she was your first princess movie to own on vhs, saying how the ending dance sequence was truly enchanting.

usually spencer goes to these film festivals by himself, but when this was one of the movies announced for the weekend, he decided now was the time. spencer reid was gonna toughen up and ask you on a date.

“hey reid,” he startled at the feminine voice beside his desk. he shut the drawer closed and turned to see elle watching him with raised brows, “everything okay?” crossing her arms and cocking a hip against his desk.

“ye- yeah. is there- was there something you needed?” hoping she doesn’t mention anything about his weird behavior, but most people would argue he’s always weird.

elle pursed her lips, “uh no. just wanted to know what’s got you sweating in this cooled office.” profiling nonchalantly. spencer bit into his bottom lip, his own brows raising as he squinted his eyes, “i- i don’t know-“

his sentence stopped short when he heard your gentle giggles and then his eyes followed your figure as you walked beside penelope. your eyes caught his and you waved in greeted, smiling widely as you continued on your walk.

“so something involving our second best liaison.” elle hummed, spencer flinched again. he forget she was still there, “n- no…” his stuttering more present whenever you were of the subject.

elle perked up and leaned forward, her eyes were alight, “are you finally asking her out?” almost squealing at the idea.

“what do you mean, finally?” spencer questioned. he didn’t tell anyone about his infatuation with you. elle rolled her smokey eyes, “oh please. you may have an iq of one eighty seven, but whenever she’s in the vicinity or mentioned it’s slashed to sixty.”

spencer felt his cheeks warm, he hunched into himself, “that’s not true.” mumbling into his chest. “you also stopped talking just to watch her walk down the hallway,” elle scuffed.

spencer licked his lips and figured there was no point in lying, plus elle might give him some advice for the date. “i’m- i’m planning to take her to a movie festival. they’re playing a french version of sleeping beauty.”

elle cooed, “gonna whisper the translation in her ear? that’s a pretty morgan move to do.”

that worried spencer, “that wouldn’t make her uncomfortable, right? i don’t want her thinking-“ elle held out her hands to stop his anxious rambles.

“just ask her. when presenting the tickets, ask if it’s okay to translate for her. if she says no, there might be something the theater has to fix that problem. but i’m sure she won’t mind.”

“who won’t mind what?”

spencer’s heart rate spiked when your voice was in earshot, then when elle moved to the side to show you joining the both of them he knew his ears started to flush red. he opened and closed his mouth, not sure how to steer the conversation.

“oh, how jj won’t mind if spencer steals you for a chat. i’ll go double check.” and with that fib elle sauntered away, leaving you confused.

“you wanted to talk with me?” hands held behind your back as you tilted your head. it prompted spencer to stand up, your head needing to lean back a bit to make eye contact.

he rubbed his palms along his pants, “uh yeah. i was- there’s this film festival that i visit regularly, many foreign originals or adaptations. and there’s gonna be a screening for a french sleeping beauty and i- i was wondering if you’d… would you like to- to go on a- on a date? with me?” he stuffed his hands into his pockets at the end when he noticed all his fidgeting.

your lips parted slightly and your head straightened, “i’d- i’d love too,” eyes twinkling like a star. “but i don’t know french.” an embarrassed smile at the information.

spencer moved a hand to scratch at his ear, “i- i could translate it for you. but i’d have to speak quietly and into your ear, is that- are you okay with that? we- we could also ask the employees for-“

you stopped him when you stepped closer and touched his forearm, a sweet smile shining upon him. “you can translate for me. i like listening to your voice.” your words a sweet syrup dripping over his heart.

spencer nodded dumbly, “o- okay. it’s- it’s friday at- at seven. so we can just- just leave after work.”

you nodded, “it’s a date.”

-

pt2

[mariasont]

can you please write Spencer and shy!reader for valentine's day? 💕💝💖💖💞💝💖 I love them so much and I love you more

Lover Girl - S.R

summary: spencer has a hypothesis about love on vday & it’s not something you agree on pairing: post!prison!reid x shy!medialiaison!reader warnings: r going crazy over something spencer said hours ago (get a grip girl), r kinda goes out of character, spencer being the sassiest human alive wc: 1.9k a/n: thank u sm for requesting i love this and i love you even more ✨💖

The draft on your laptop was starting to look less like a press release and more and more like a psychological cry for help. Words sprawled like abandoned thoughts, entire sentences had been brutally sacrificed to the backspace key, and you'd rewritten the same transition phrase so many times it no longer felt like a real word. The whole thing read like the work of someone who had just sustained a minor head injury.

Objectively? It was bad.

Subjectively? It was an unmitigated disaster.

You blamed Spencer. Or maybe you blamed yourself for still thinking about it, for letting his words linger in your head like an incorrectly formatted footnote that you couldn't stop rereading.

You had never been a hopeless romantic, exactly, but you liked the idea of it, the structure of it. Believed it was more than a sum of its parts. More than just wires crossing in the brain and pattern recognition.

And yet, he had discarded the notion so easily, reducing love to a series of neurochemical reactions misinterpreted as emotional depth, something logical and completely stripped of any sort of real feeling.

He hadn't meant it cruelly, but his voice carried a kind of detachment that made you want to launch your coffee at his ridiculously well-structured face. It shouldn't bother you.

It really, genuinely, in no universe, should not bother you. It wasn't like you had a chance with him, so why did it matter what Spencer Reid, certified romance cynic, destroyer of sentimental ideals, and casual heartbreaker, thought about love?

If anything, his lack of belief should make it easier to kill this absurd crush before it spiraled into something unmanageable.

You squared your shoulders and looked back to the screen, back to the carefully worded Bureau-approved phrases meant to sound polished and agreeable.

Strengthening community trust. Bridging the gap between law enforcement and the public.

Meaningless, hollow, designed to be palatable without saying anything real. Blah. Blah.

I mean, did he really think that love was like an outdated scientific theory? It was Valentine's Day, for crying out loud — if nothing else, wasn't that proof of its existence?

You had considered the possibility that he had stopped believing because he had to. That prison had stripped the softness of him, turned love into just another abstract concept that didn't hold up under scrutiny, like time, like trust, like freedom.

Or maybe (and this was the more infuriating possibility) he had always been like this, too pragmatic to believe in something he couldn't technically hold in his hands.

You groaned under your breath, rubbing at your temple like you could physically press the words out of your skull, like they were just another headache waiting to pass. Why were you still thinking about this? It was stupid. He was stupid. You were stupid of caring.

Except he wasn't stupid. He was obnoxiously brilliant, the kind of smart that made other geniuses insecure, and that was the problem. Because if someone that intelligent didn't believe in love the way you did.... did that mean you were in the wrong? Had you been naive this whole time, blindly buying into a romanticized fantasy while Spencer had long dissected it and found it lacking?

The knock on your office doorframe startled you so badly that your entire skeletal structure attempted to evacuate your body, knee jerking up, colliding with the underside of the desk with an unforgiving whack.

You barely had time to wonder if you'd just concussed your kneecap before you looked up and — Spencer. Standing in the doorway like some cosmic punishment for thinking about him too hard.

Heat flooded your face like an admission of guilt, because why, why, did it suddenly feel like you'd been caught red-handed?

"Hey," he said, tilting his head. "You okay?"

No, you wanted to say. Not at all. Because what were you supposed to do when they very subject of your over analysis materialized in your doorway, looking at you like he could see every freaking unspoken thought folded between your ribs?

You swallowed, forced yourself to look anywhere but directly at him, because everything about this, about him, felt like some kind of cruel irony.

"Uh, yeah," you croaked, voice pitching embarrassingly high. Great. Perfect. Totally normal human behavior.

Spencer's brow furrowed, his head doing that thing he did when something wasn't quite right. But miraculously, he didn't say anything about it.

"I was just...," You gestured to your laptop.

Spencer nodded slowly, either accepting your excuse at face value or deciding it wasn't worth the effort to call you out.

"Right. I was just going to ask if you had finalized the press release for me to proof."

Your stomach lurched, a sharp drop like missing a step in the dark. Finalized. Bold of him to assume you'd done anything besides stare blankly at your screen for the past fifteen minutes.

"Oh! Yeah, of course," you said, throwing out the words with a half-hearted smile as if that would seal the lie. "Almost done. Just... you know, making sure it's perfect."

Spencer stepped inside, moving just past the threshold. His expression changed. Less neutral. More aware.

"You're acting strange."

Which was unacceptable, because if anyone in this scenario should be acting strange, it was him, standing there like a walking contradiction.

"I — what?" The laugh escaped before you could trap it behind your teeth, jagged and surely unnatural.

"You're tense. And you don't usually second-guess yourself this much. If it was almost done, you'd just say so." His eyes flicked to the laptop. "Did something happen?"

Your face went nuclear, looking away, hyper focused on the edge of the desk like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen. "I don't know what you mean. I'm acting normal."

Spencer made a thoughtful noise. "Denial first. Then contradiction."

"I —"

"Oh, and there's the hesitation. That usually happens when you're trying to figure out how to backpedal without making it obvious."

"Do you always do this?"

"Only when people are lying about something." He squinted at you. "And you're a very bad liar."

He tapped a finger a finger against his arm in a way that made your nerves itch, before stepping forward and sinking into the chair across from your desk.

"Huh."

You frowned. "What?"

"You're doing the same thing you did earlier," he said matter-of-factly. "Avoiding direct responses, looking everywhere but me, shifting in your seat."

His gaze lingered, and then — Gods, help you — his lips curved, just slightly.

"Almost like the conversation was bothering you then, too."

Oh. Oh, this was bad. He was trying to talk about the one topic you'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to erase from your brain.

"I just, well, it's not that I had thoughts or feelings on it or anything, I just didn't, well, I mean, I just didn't want to be in that conversation, you know? Not that it was bad. Just — not my thing."

Spencer's eyebrows lifted. "So you disagreed with me?"

"I — I did not say that."

"No, but you just said everything but that." He leaned forward. "So tell me. What was it?"

You finally look at him, actually looked at him, and immediately regretted it.

You tried to gauge if there was any chance you could turn this conversation in your favor.

Nope.

"I mean, I wouldn't say disagreed, per se, I just... thought maybe your take was a little—," you sighed, "dismissive."

"Oh? And what exactly am I dismissing?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer, but because you had too many. Love wasn't just science, romance wasn't just a byproduct of biology, that it meant something. It's real. It matters. It's— "You're dismissing everything beyond your own reasoning."

You waited. For the rebuttal, the deconstruction, the inevitable moment Spencer laid your words bare and left you scrambling to rebuild them. But this time there was nothing. He just sat there. Looking at you. Like he was waiting for something else.

You fidgeted. Crossed your arms. Uncrossed them. "What?"

"Nothing. Just... thinking." A pause. "You clearly have an opinion on this, just trying to figure out what it is."

Your lips pressed together, your brain begging you to let it go, to shut up before you started. But the words were already forming, bubbling up too fast to stop.

"Okay, look. I get it. I get the science. I get that love can be explained in chemical terms."

Spencer nodded, like you were finally seeing his point.

"But that doesn't mean that's all it is," you said, sitting up straighter. "Love isn't just an instinct. If it was then why do people stay in love when it doesn't make sense? Why do people wait years for someone who might never come back? Why do people hold on to feelings they know won't be returned?"

You inhaled sharply, only to realize what you had said felt a little too personal. Heat flared to your toes. "I just, uh, you're looking at it like it's an equation when it's more like, like art. You can break down why a painting is visually appealing, but that doesn't explain why it moves people."

"So love is art then?" A small smirk tugged at his lips. "That would mean it's subjective. That one person's version of it isn't the same as another's."

"Well, yeah, that's my point." You nodded. "Everyone experiences it differently. That's why it can't be reduced to formulas. You can recreate the exact conditions of a moment, use the same words, set the same scene but it won't feel the same to someone else. Because love isn't about external factors, it's about who you're with, how they make you feel."

"That sounds dangerously close to saying it's entirely irrational."

You exhaled. "If it is, then I guess that means you'll never understand it."

Spencer pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his cuff like this was just another conversation and not something that had you actively fighting for oxygen.

Then, with an infuriating self-satisfied smile, he murmured, "Well, maybe I just need the right person to teach me."

You nearly choked on air.

And with one last glance, he grinned and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, lover girl."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[hotchfied]

lari from @hotchfiles' archive of hotch + cm related fics

check tags on this post to be guided to character, type of reader, multi chapter fics and explicit works

[whisperedmeg]

AFTERSHOCK ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x liaison!reader

summary: you were held at knifepoint. spencer wasn’t there, but now he is — sitting outside the shower, whispering sea otter facts, and touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort | w/c: 3.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, reader works for the BAU, friends/coworkers to lovers, story starts after a hostage situation/being held at knifepoint, mentions of bruises and cuts and blood and a gunshot but no major injury (to reader), fingering, p in v, spencer asks for consent like a million times #king, kind of open ending

a/n: omg my first request 🥲 i made reader an assistant media liaison bc i liked the idea of her having minimal field experience + working closely with JJ. i was envisioning like young, s2 spencer here (specifically glasses reid when he goes to check on Elle in her hotel room hence the header but hey, imagine what you wish). hope you enjoy, kind anon! 🦦

The lights were too bright.

Not in a metaphorical way, but literally. Overhead fluorescents buzzed in the corner of your vision as a paramedic waved a penlight in your eyes, asking questions you could barely process.

“You know your name?” he asked. You nodded. Or at least you thought you did. Maybe you answered him verbally — you couldn’t say for sure. “Good. You’re gonna be okay. Just some bruising and minor cuts. We’ll get your neck bandaged up then you’ll be good to go.”

This time, you heard yourself thank him, but your voice didn’t sound like your own.

In the moments after the standoff ended, everything had blurred. You remembered the moment you realized he was about to slit your throat — and how you kept your voice level anyway, how you kept talking to distract him until the team broke through the front. You remembered Hotch yelling your name, and Derek rushing forward as the unsub yanked you tighter against him — right before the single shot that brought him down rang through the air. You remembered insisting you were fine. “It’s just a few scratches.” But your hands had trembled when you signed the incident report, and your voice had cracked as you hugged JJ and tried to tell her you were okay. You remembered blood on your blouse, though it hadn’t been yours. And then you thought of Spencer.

Spencer.

You hadn’t seen him since before you’d gone into that warehouse backroom, when he was told to stay at the precinct while you were sent in to try to talk the unsub down. You were the suspect’s type — it seemed like it made sense, at the time.

Now, hours later, your ears still rang faintly with the sound of a gunshot and sirens. The scent of sweat and antiseptic clung to your hair. You were stiff from tension, from crouching for too long, from being held with a blade tight against your throat. And though the medics cleared you, your body didn’t quite feel like it was yours.

So when you got back to the hotel and opened the door to your room, you weren’t surprised to find Spencer already sitting there.

His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His legs bounced slightly, shoulders curled inward. As soon as he saw you, he stood so quickly it looked like it surprised even him.

You stared at him for a moment. He somehow managed to look even worse than you felt.

“Hi,” you said softly.

His throat bobbed. “Hi.”

You closed the door behind you. Leaned against it, unsure what you needed, only that it might be him.

“JJ told me you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“I’m not. Just… tired. Shaky. A little out of it.” You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your knees felt too weak to hold the weight of your composure.

“Could you—” You paused. Swallowed. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and stepped forward, his arms coming around you so gently it nearly broke you.

—

You had worked with Spencer Reid for nearly two years. As assistant press liaison, your job at the BAU was mostly behind the scenes — handling media inquiries, prepping briefings, coordinating with JJ. Occasionally you went into the field, like you had today. And over time, you’d gotten closer to the team. Closer to Spencer.

He was your best friend. The kind who noticed when you were quiet for too long. The kind who annotated articles he thought you’d like. Who remembered your coffee order down to the exact milk-to-cold brew ratio. Who once lent you his beloved purple scarf because you were shivering, and never once asked for it back.

You’d always told yourself that’s what it was — just friendship, albeit the rarest and gentlest kind. You two had never crossed the line. Never even came close.

But still, there were moments.

The brush of hands when passing files. Gazes that lingered a little too long when you laughed. The quiet way he always listened intently as you spoke, even in a room full of louder voices.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

Not until today — when you saw him across the hotel room, eyes wide and wounded, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. That look wasn’t friendly. That look was something else entirely.

—

You sat together on the edge of the bed for a while — not really speaking, just breathing the same air. You noticed the redness in his eyes, the way he rubbed his palms together like he needed to feel something real.

“I should probably shower,” you said eventually, your voice small. You were still in the same clothes from the scene, crusted with dirt and dried blood. “But I don’t… I don’t really want to be alone.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I could sit in the bathroom with you, if you want. I won’t, uh, look or anything. I’ll just— I’ll be there.”

You nodded, your chest aching.

The hotel bathroom was a little dated, the kind with a plastic curtain and a light that hummed faintly when switched on. You undressed slowly, hands trembling, and stepped into the spray. Warm water hit your skin, but the shivering didn’t stop. You called out for Spencer to let him know he could come in.

“I’m here,” Spencer said gently from the other side of the curtain. You heard the soft thud of him sitting down, back against the tub.

“Thanks,” you said. Your voice sounded a little steadier than you felt.

“Did you know that the human body has over two million sweat glands? They’re actually most concentrated on the soles of your feet.”

You laughed — a surprised, soft sound. “That’s… weirdly interesting.”

He chuckled too. “I read once that just hearing someone else talk about non-threatening subjects can help slow down your heart rate. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system.”

You swallowed as you massaged shampoo into your scalp. “Keep talking, then.”

So he did. He told you about an article he read on sea otters. About how they sometimes hold hands and cuddle while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. About how Saturn’s rings are made mostly of ice and dust, and how they’re slowly disappearing. About a study on how people who read a lot of fiction are generally more empathetic, and how he thinks that’s probably true, especially when applied to you and your collection of romantasy novels.

When you turned off the water, you stood there for a moment, breathing in the steam.

You reached outside the curtain for the towel you’d hung on the hook earlier, wrapping it around yourself before you stepped out carefully onto the mat. Spencer stayed seated, gaze averted, but lifted his arm to offer you the white fluffy hotel robe.

“Here,” he said, voice soft, still not looking.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him with fingers that brushed his. You slipped it on over the towel, grateful for the extra warmth, and tied the sash tightly around your waist.

He finally glanced up then, eyes scanning your face for any sign of how you were holding together.

“Can we go sit down?”

He stood immediately. “Of course.”

Together, you stepped out of the bathroom, his presence quiet beside you. You sat on the edge of the bed and he joined you, leaving space but not distance.

It was then you finally noticed it: he looked so tired. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying something too heavy, and you wondered how long he’d been holding it all in. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something raw in the way he held his hands — like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Spencer blinked a few times and stared down at his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I… I didn’t realize how scared I was. Not really. Not until I saw you standing here again. When I was back at the precinct and heard what was going on, what he was doing to you, I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Your chest ached again. You reached for him instinctively — not with any plan, just the need to touch something steady. Your hand found his face, palm against his cheek, and you felt the tremble in his jaw.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

He turned into your touch slightly, eyes fluttering closed. A breath escaped him — a shaky, wordless thing.

“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he murmured. “About how close it was. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” you interrupted gently. “I’m here, Spencer. It’s over.”

The silence stretched.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at you like he was finally seeing something he’d never dared to let himself look at too closely — not until now.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then away entirely, as if embarrassed.

You smiled, small and a little awkward. “Spencer…”

He didn’t move. Just stayed there with your hand pressed to his cheek and his gaze trained on the sheets, as if he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he shifted even an inch.

“I know it’s not helpful to spiral into hypotheticals, but… I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about how close it was. How close I came to never seeing you again. And it made me realize…”

He trailed off, brow furrowing like he was debating whether to keep going. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. You waited.

“I realized that if I lost you,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t just miss working with you, or… talking to you, or being your friend. I’d miss you. Everything I never said. Everything I always pretended I didn’t feel because it wasn’t—because it wasn’t appropriate, or logical, or fair.”

Your breath caught. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I just don’t know if… if you’ve ever thought about it. About me. About… us. About, um, being more than just friends.”

The room spun gently. Not in a bad way — more like the moment had tipped sideways and you were falling into it, a new gravity you hadn’t dared even imagine until now.

You stared at him.

For a second, your brain scrambled to fill the silence with something. A joke. A change of subject. A safer version of the truth.

But the look on his face — the quiet devastation of it, like he was already preparing to apologize for crossing a line — cut straight through every instinct to deflect.

Because of course you’d thought about it.

Every late night on the phone. Every smirk across the briefing room. Every friendly touch on your shoulder that lingered half a second too long. You’d buried it all under layers of friendship and professional distance.

But it was there. It had always been there.

And after everything you’d been through today, you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

“Spencer,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

His breath hitched, and he finally lifted his eyes enough to meet yours.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” you admitted.

His eyes widened slightly. You could feel the warmth radiating off him. The tension. The fragile possibility hanging in the space between your bodies.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Course I have.”

“Then can I—” He stopped and laughed a little, awkward and embarrassed. “God, I don’t even know how to ask.”

You smiled. “Try anyway.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You took a long, deep breath, then whispered, “Please.”

He leaned in slowly, hesitantly — and when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t confident or practiced. It was cautious. Careful. A little awkward and clumsy. But it was him, and it was you, and it was real.

His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t sure it would last. You kissed him deeper, steadier, until you felt him melt a little — into the moment, into you.

He held your face like you were something sacred. You tugged him closer like you’d die without the contact. He whispered your name against your mouth, like he was still trying to make himself believe you were there.

The kiss stayed soft for a long time — tentative, exploratory. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell. Like you were both waiting for the moment one of you might pull away and realize this was a mistake.

But you didn’t, and when his hands drifted down to your waist, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. His fingers trailed across the terrycloth material of the hotel robe. “You’re… you’re not wearing any real clothes right now. Maybe we should stop.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s definitely okay.”

Still, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he needed to hear it in more than words.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything. We don’t have to—”

You shook your head before he could finish, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I know. You’re not messing anything up.”

His eyes searched yours, still uncertain.

“I want to. I want you,” you whispered.

You reached for him, guiding his hand to your chest like you needed him to feel how steady your heartbeat had become — proof that this wasn’t panic. This was choosing. Choosing him.

He took a long breath, then slowly, he eased you down onto the pillows.

When his fingers brushed the tie of your robe, he paused again. “Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours.

You answered not just with a nod, but by threading your fingers through his hair. “Spencer. Please, I need this.”

He let out a soft, quivering breath, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along without even knowing it.

And still, he didn’t rush.

He loosened the tie and slipped the robe from your shoulders like it was something precious. Beneath it, the towel clung to your damp skin, and when you let it fall open, he didn’t look away — but he didn’t devour, either. He just gazed at you like you were something precious and rare, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to see you this way.

He undressed, too — slowly, thoughtfully — until there was nothing between you but skin and breath and unspoken things neither of you had ever dared say before.

Between each move he made, he kissed you again — your temple, your shoulder, the soft curve of your wrist, your neck just above the bandage covering your cut. And every time he asked if it was okay, you gave him a variation of the same answer:

“Still okay.”

“Still yes.”

“Still want you.”

His hands moved with aching care — not wandering, but learning. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch of skin, every breath you took beneath him. His mouth found the bruise along your ribs and lingered there, brushing a kiss so gentle it nearly undid you.

When he rose up on his elbows, his hair fell softly around his face. You reached up and tucked it behind his ear, and the way he smiled — shy, grateful, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — made your heart twist.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, more sure. It was gentle, then a little deeper. Then everything, all at once. His mouth opened against yours and you welcomed him in, arms winding around his back to pull him closer. You felt his weight shift, the warmth of his thigh sliding between yours, the subtle grind of his hips.

His hand found your cheek again before sliding down to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your breasts — then lower. When his fingers finally brushed between your legs, you gasped.

He pulled back instantly, worried. “Too much?”

You shook your head, breathless. “Not at all. Just… it’s you. My brain’s still processing.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“Keep going,” you whispered.

His fingers moved with cautious intent, like he was still learning you, like he was determined to get it right. He traced slow, deliberate circles, his touch light enough to tease but steady enough to draw a soft moan from your throat.

“That good?” he whispered.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere behind your breath. “Better than good.”

He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your lips again — never straying too far from your mouth, as if needing that closeness to anchor him. One finger slipped inside you slowly, then another, stretching you with exquisite care. His other hand cradled the side of your face, grounding you in the moment, in him. Every stroke of his fingers sent heat curling through your belly, your hips tilting toward him without conscious thought. He was watching you now, eyes dark and tender, his breath uneven with each sound you made.

“God,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb softly across your clit. “You’re so responsive.”

You managed a breathless laugh, clinging to him. “Guess we’re finding out a lot tonight.”

He swallowed hard, like he didn’t know what to do with that — like it meant more than either of you were ready to say aloud. But his pace never faltered. He curled his fingers experimentally, eyes never leaving yours, and smiled when you moaned softly.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

You could feel it building, not fast but steady — pressure, heat, ache. But before it crested, before it could consume you entirely, you reached for him.

“Spencer,” you breathed.

And he knew what you meant.

He withdrew his fingers, kissed you like it was the only language he knew — and as your body trembled beneath him, aching for more, he paused.

One hand stayed at your cheek, the other braced beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight between your thighs, lining himself up with deliberate care. He looked down at you then — really looked — as if the entire world had narrowed to the space between your bodies.

“Still okay?” he asked in a soft, comforting whisper. “We don’t have to, you know. We can still stop.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. You reached up, brushing hair back from his forehead again, and held his gaze.

“I know,” you murmured, “but I want this. I want you.”

His breath hitched — and only then did he move.

Slowly, carefully, he eased into you with a soft, broken sound, his breath catching in his throat as your body welcomed him in.

You gasped again, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by the way he fit against you like he was always meant to be there. Like this was what you’d always been waiting for.

You held his gaze like it tethered you to something solid — like it kept you both from slipping back into fear or doubt or the thousand what-ifs still echoing from the day.

He moved cautiously — each roll of his hips asking if you still wanted this, and each time, your body answered by drawing him closer, moaning his name like a promise.

A soft sound escaped your lips as he pressed deeper. You tightened around him, and his breath hitched.

“God,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you feel… incredible.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, your chest rising to meet his. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, exhaling shakily as his hips stilled. “I can’t stop.” His voice dropped, cracked and honest. “This is surreal. And I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if the team didn’t find you in time.”

“Spence,” you said gently, cupping his cheek, “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He rocked into you again, the motion tender and deliberate. “I’m not,” he whispered, “not when I’m with you.”

You gasped softly, clutching at his shoulder blades as he began to find a rhythm, unhurried but overwhelming.

“Talk to me,” you breathed. “You always talk when I need it. Can you still do that?”

His forehead rested against yours as he nodded, his voice warm and broken between thrusts. “You’re so beautiful like this. I mean, you’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought that. But this is… something else entirely. And you’re so soft, so open.” He kissed you, slow and searching. “I can feel every part of you. It’s—God, it’s even more than I thought it would be.”

You arched into him, breath catching in your throat. “More?”

He groaned softly, moving deeper, a flicker of something reverent in his eyes. “More real. More… you. You’re letting me see all of you, and I—” His breath faltered. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”

You smiled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer weight of it all. “You’re not. I’m right here.”

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your breath, your softness, your heartbeat against his. And then his hand slid between you, fingers circling where you needed him most — slow at first, then firmer, perfectly in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. “Please. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You clung to him, gasping his name, overwhelmed by the way every nerve in your body seemed to fire at once — not just pleasure, but everything: safety, want, the ache of almost losing this before you ever got to have it. Your body arched into him, chasing the edge he offered so tenderly, so completely.

When you finally broke, it was all-consuming — a tremble that started deep inside and rippled outward, your nails digging into his back, your eyes wet, your breath catching on a cry. And as you came apart in his arms, you felt him follow, felt the shudder in his body as he moaned your name against your neck and held you like you were the only real thing in the world.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. Just wrapped his arms around you and held you like a lifeline — like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence said it all.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, your fingers still trembling slightly. “You were exactly where you needed to be,” you murmured. “Somewhere safe. And you’re here now. We both are.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, slower. Like something steady. Like a promise.

—

Later, beneath the hum of the hotel air conditioner and the softened static of silence, you let your body sink into his. The worst had passed, but the aftershocks of what happened earlier in that warehouse still lived in your body — in the ache behind your eyes, in the way you reached for Spencer without thinking, in the unspoken things now pulsing between you like fresh bruises.

Spencer stayed awake beside you, his fingers tracing quiet, grounding patterns along your spine as his other hand held yours tightly. He looked down at your intertwined fingers and thought about the sea otters again, a small, barely-there smile curling at his lips.

You didn’t know what this would become — only that something had shifted. But as you felt the hush of his breath against your neck, you drifted off. And for first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were bracing for the next wave of tremors.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[cerisereids]

𝗜𝘁 𝗔𝗶𝗻'𝘁 𝗠𝗲, 𝗕𝗮𝗯𝗲- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer Reid x Liaison!OldMoney!Reader

WC- 5.6k

Summary- You have to rekindle things with an old flame for a case. It helps Spencer realize some deep-seated feelings.

Contains- modern!liaison!reader, canon-typical violence, description of crime scene photos, Spencer is literally feral, reader is in her late twenties, reader has long hair (or hair long enough to flip over her shoulder), mentions of cheating, reader's ex is the worst, mention of cocaine, the case probably isn't canon compliant

A/N- This was fully inspired by the episode The Black Queen where Penelope bumps into her ex bon appetit, divider from @cafekitsune!!! Also!! Hugest shout-out to @cheriesbucky for all your help with this!! You are the best ever!!

You're holed up in your office, your finger aggressively running over your laptop's touch pad. Your eyes scan each email as thoroughly as you can, case files never-ending. A pink mug of coffee is filled to the brim, fueling your rapid scrolling.

A new one pops to the top of your inbox, and your blood runs cold. You're stopped in your tracks, the same way you always are when case files begin with 'Provincetown, Massachusetts'.

Your finger hovers shakily over the track pad, clicking the email to find gruesome crime scenes photos. This particular unsub's dump site is achingly familiar, even after all this time. Multiple bodies lay on a coastal beach, posed for the police to find.

You bring your mug to your lips, taking a tentative sip as you study the PDF filling your screen. Extortion and murder within a high end law firm. The arms on your hair prickle at that, a chill unzipping down your spine.

Engrossed in your screen, you barely notice the time. 8:04. The team has been waiting in the conference room for 4 minutes, and you need to present them a case. You sigh in resignation. It turns out you're going to Provincetown.

You jump out of your chair almost cartoonishly. You scramble, printing hard copies of the case file, folding your laptop under your arm as you grab your coffee mug. Your heels clack rapidly against the linoleum floor as you desperately balance the coffee sloshing around in your mug.

The strong musk of coffee wafts through your nose as you enter the stuffy conference room. Sunlight peeks through the shaded windows, a sliver of golden light brightening a room that's seen so much darkness.

The chaos you're emanating mirrors exactly what you've felt inside since viewing the case file currently in your clutches.

"Sorry I'm late!" you squeal, setting your coffee down in your haste. You catch a certain brown eyed doctor smile over the rim of his own coffee cup as you shove the hard copies his way.

"Our case..today..." you trail off, fidgeting with the technology as the first crime scene finally loads on the large flat screen. Anxiety pricks like tiny pin needles, poking each one of your nerves as the familiar photograph pops up on the screen. Your shaking hands smooth over your buttery yellow dress, willing yourself to calm the adrenaline coursing through you. You hope your anxiety goes unnoticed, though you know it's unlikely in a room full of profilers.

"Our case today is in Provincetown, Massachusetts," you state. Saying it aloud proves to be confirmation of what you already know to be true. Your heart sinks to the deepest pit in your stomach. There's no getting out of this case, no matter how hard you try.

"White collar?" a curious voice pulls you out of your stupor.

Your eyes dart to the man in front of you. Ruffed hair and a suit that fits perfectly snug, Spencer Reid flips through his case file. You try your hardest to focus on the glimmer of his cuff links, the flex of his deft fingers, anything to keep your mind off your impending trip to the east.

"Extortion," Emily specifies.

You punctuate her point with more grim photos. Multiple victims sprawled out on an all-too familiar coastal beach. You shift on your heels, hands rising to your hips as if you could move around the discomfort this peculiar nostalgia brings.

"Multiple victims left on Herring Cove Beach, shot execution style. All victims had taken large cash withdrawals from the bank," you conclude.

The team rattles off theories, bouncing off each other in a way you've come to enjoy in your short time at the BAU. You can't pay attention, though, to anything other than the erratic beat of your heart, the boiling heat singeing your stomach.

You're silent on the jet, your focus drifting in and out of the team's conversation. You have to fight the guilt creeping its way into your gut. You're acting like a child, your head petulantly turned toward the window.

It isn't long before Spencer sits across from you, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. It's not as if you don't want to see him. You'd never deny the chance to look into his stunning brown eyes. You just know he's figured you out, not bothering to hide the knowing uptick of his lip.

You haven't known Spencer long, just in the few short months since his release. You were hired on while the team was actively trying to release him. An extra set of eyes and ears trained for the media soon became an essential part in doing so. You've been enamored with him since, his mysterious aura creating a magnetic pull you can't escape.

"What's bothering you?" he asks. It's soft, tentative, testing your limits of what you'll share.

"Nothing," you breathe, though you know it's a lost cause.

All it takes is the uptick of his right brow, a look in his eye that sears right through you. You shift once more, willing yourself to get rid of the weight resting heavy on your chest.

"I'm from Provincetown. It's been 5 years since I've been back," you confess, avoiding eye contact. Your eyes are trained on the puffy clouds you float above.

"Ah..." Spencer nods, a knowing smile on his face. "I've been there."

Your eyes dart to his, eyebrows raised in suspicion. Since you've met Spencer upon his release from prison, he's presented as cool, collected. Not someone who feels as unraveled as you are now.

"Every time we go to Las Vegas," he affirms, and a soft smile spreads across your lips. "I feel the same way you do. Guilty, anxious, like your gut's been singed with a fire poker."

The way he reads you so easily completely unravels you, your heart clutches as it picks up in speed. You know he's a top class profiler, but the way he looks at you, it's like he's been waiting for you. To read you, study you, look at you.

"That's exactly it," you muse, your chin resting in the palm of your hand. You avoid eye contact once more, his gaze piercing straight through you.

"Hey! Lovebirds!" Rossi calls from the other end of the jet. "We got a suspect, get over here."

A white hot embarrassment pools in your stomach, all eyes trained on you and Spencer as you make your way to the front of the jet. You sit next to Emily, as far away as you can get from Spencer. You feel his eyes on you still.

"Provincetown PD just called," Emily informed you, "they just made a positive identification. A man named Preston Langford was caught by one of the security cameras fleeing the scene of the dumping site. He was driving with another unidentified male in the car. They're on the lam."

Your stomach drops at the name, the rest of Emily's words falling on deaf ears. They're replaced with a high pitched whine ringing through your ears. Your thoughts race, pinging around your head like a pinball. Preston. A suspect. The thought makes you nauseous. though you're not entirely surprised.

At the sound of your name, your eyes snap open to see Emily staring at you with a look of concern. You must not have responded the first time she said it. As soon as you're aware, your cheeks heat up with embarrassment as all of the teammates’ eyes are on you once more.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her brows furrowing.

You swallow the lump in your throat, refusing to look at anyone as you mumble, "Preston Langford is my ex-boyfriend."

Her words ring in Spencer's ear even after they step off the jet. "Preston Langford is my ex-boyfriend." White hot jealousy has seared through him since the words fell off her lips. It's unlike him, this animalistic urge to keep her as far away from this man as possible.

He watches the way she greets the local PD, introducing the team, a sweet smile on her face. The way their eyes linger on her as the wind drifts through her hair makes him want to boil over. Her light dress flows gently, hugging her body in a way that makes his head spin.

He knows they're not the only men looking at her like this, a fact he's become increasingly aware of in the past few weeks. Upon his return to the team after his release, she was the last thing he expected. He understands the reasoning behind her hire, the need for extra hands while he was behind bars. She's completely and totally thrown him, though. She's unlocked this magnetism within him, this animalistic urge to have her close at all times.

Frustration crawls up his spine as he watches her go, leaving to address the media before the story leaks. People flock to her, seeing exactly what he does. It drives him insane. The heat of the beach forces a drop of sweat down his brow, he squeezes his eyes shut before ripping his suit jacket off. He's left in his white button down, sleeves now rolled up to the elbow.

The sweet, coconutty smell of the sunscreen she's just applied invades his senses before he even sees her. He cracks his neck, scrambling for at least a semblance of patience before he looks at her. Her brows are furrowed in concern, a feather light touch on his forearm that sends his brain into a nauseating spin.

"Spencer," she starts, the worry lacing her tone clutching at his heart, "is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he mutters, gruff and distant, "fine. Just hot." He refuses to make eye contact with her, his hands flexing at his sides.

"Yeah, okay..." she trails off, unbelieving. "Well, I have some financial records of our victims here. Each of them made large withdrawals of cash once a week in the months leading up to the murders. Go crazy, Doctor."

The title unzips a shiver down his spine, goosebumps rising on his heated flesh. He feels his cheeks heat, no doubt tinting red. It's the sun. It has to be. She walks away again, and it's slow, torturous. The wind clings her clothing to her body in a way that's nearly sinful. It's not long until sickly guilt boils in the pit of his stomach. He has no right to look at her like this, especially not after he spoke to her like that.

He wipes his brow, trying to pour every ounce of himself into these financial records. His eyes scan the documents in his usual rapid speed, and it's not long before he's got a lead. He charges up the beach, rounding up the team in one of the tents the local PD set up on the beach.

"All of our victims spent exactly $150 over the course of the last two months, once a week, immediately after they made their cash withdrawals from the bank," Spencer spreads out the records before his team, each of them moving closer to the shaky white picnic table to inspect them for themselves.

"Do we know where?" Emily asks, looking up at Spencer.

"Somewhere called The Westbury Club," Spencer answers.

"The Westbury?" a high pitched voice calls out from the entrance of the tent. His eyes dart to her, frozen there with a look of shock painted on her face.

"You know it?" Tara asks, and she shifts awkwardly in her spot.

"Yeah...yeah. Preston used to take me there, it's been his favorite spot for I don't even know how long," she shakes her head incredulously.

Spencer rolls his eyes, stifling a groan at the thought that this guy's 'favorite spot' is a place called The Westbury Club.

"Well, let's scope it out," Rossi states, moving towards her and pointing, "you're coming with us."

She shrugs, and turns to follow him.

The team pulls up to a large, white building with ivy crawling across the front. A simple, sleek sign above the door reads The Westbury Club. Spencer stays close to her as they make their way inside.

"Wow!" the bartender exclaims once they're inside, "what a surprise!" He's looking right at her, and Spencer sees an uncomfortable smile stretch her lips.

"Hi, Mike," she reaches over to shake his hand.

"Gosh, how long has it been, 5 years? We all knew you'd go on to do incredible things," his smile seems sincere, so why does she seem so anxious?

"Well, thanks, that's sweet," she breathes, "hey, I have a question for you. Preston still come around here?" The name almost hurts Spencer's ears.

"Every Thursday, always with the same group of people. Why?" the bartender replies.

"We're going to need copies of your security tapes from every Thursday over the last three months," she orders, and there's something about her assertive tone that invigorates him, swells his chest with pride.

The bartender leaves, and she leans back on the bar, taking in her surroundings.

"This place hasn't changed a bit," her voice is laced with disdain as her eyes dart around.

"You went here a lot?" the words are gritty on Spencer's tongue. The thought of her dressed to the nines, sitting across from some loser who's now a primary suspect, makes him want to boil over in rage.

"Every Thursday," the confession rocks Spencer, the idea that she could mean so much to this guy that his crimes are modeled after her. Not that he's their unsub or anything.

"Really?" Rossi's voice comes from behind them, approaching from the back of the restaurant. "You think we can use that?"

Spencer doesn't like the suggestion lingering in Rossi's tone. Nerves crawl up his spine like tiny spiders.

"How?" she inquires, as she shifts her weight and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Well, tomorrow's Thursday," he states, nodding to the bartender who's now returned with a USB drive, "think he'll be here this week?"

"I can almost guarantee it," Mike replies, a concerned look in his eye.

"Alright," Rossi huffs, "then there's something I might need you to do for us," he nods towards her, and Spencer knows whatever it is, he's not going to like it.

You're sitting in an FBI van parked outside The Westbury. Your 'night-out' makeup paints your skin, red lips and a smoky eye accentuating your features. A tight, deep red dress hugs your frame, black heels lifting you an extra four inches. Your eyes are trained on Rossi's shoe, your leg bouncing as you try and focus on the words coming out of his mouth.

"You're the only one of us that has a connection to our main suspect, so you need to be as smooth as possible," Rossi declares.

You nod shakily, a nauseating mix of anxiety and adrenaline thrumming through your veins. Rossi squares your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. You catch Spencer in your peripheral, nestled in the corner of the van.

He looks about as nervous as you, his frame wrapped in a sleek, navy suit, his fingers interlaced in a death grip. He rests his elbows on his knees, his brows furrowed in what looks like frustration. Your own brows mirror his, unsure of what's been wrong with him since you've touched down in Massachusetts.

"You guys are going to be just fine. I don't know what this guy was like as a boyfriend, but judging from his financial records he's not a peach. He can't get to you anymore. You're simply undercover, and Spencer will be right next to you the whole time" Rossi's voice is calm, it grounds you in these last few moments before you're faced with Preston once again.

Your heels click against the pavement in time with the tap of Spencer's formal shoes. As you walk towards the restaurant, a faint hum of classical music wafting out into the parking lot.

You don't make it very far until his pinky hesitantly links with yours, a soft gesture that doesn't match the hard exterior he's put on the past few days. You turn your head towards him slightly, catching his flushed skin and bashful smile. The soft light emanating from the restaurant coat him in a golden glow, and you take a moment to be selfish, to truly absorb how gorgeous he looks like this.

"You have nothing to worry about, you know," Spencer mutters, his gaze falling towards the concrete. "You're handling this case perfectly, just like you do every other case you work on. Just because we're here doesn't change that."

"Thanks, Spence," you breathe out, your cheeks heating slightly at the compliment. He nods, subtle yet firm, reassuring as you two approach the door.

The golden lights of The Westbury coat your skin. The familiar hum of intimate conversation and clinking wine glasses wafts through the air. You close your eyes and take a breath, summoning the you that existed five years ago, standing next to a man planted so firmly in your present.

You assume the part of a couple once you enter the restaurant, Spencer opens the door for you, a large hand splayed on the small of your back as you enter. You greet the hostess with the sparkle in your eye of a woman deeply in love, your arms wrapped around Spencer's.

As you're led to your table, you scan the expanse of the restaurant, and your heart stops when you spot the familiar head of blonde hair. His eyes are on you the second yours find him, and it strikes you. His eyes shoot straight through you like a bullet. You play hard to get, looking away, but not before you take in the faces surrounding him. Unfortunately, they all look like every other man that exists in your hometown. The classic coastal cut and fit- flowing hair, matched with pastel button downs and tight fitted slacks.

You roll your eyes as you turn your gaze towards Spencer, the waitress bringing two glasses of deep red wine. You raise your brows in time with your glass, clinking it with Spencer's as you take a sip.

"He's seen me already," you hum lowly, a smirk painting your lips to convey a different message to any possible onlookers.

"Really?" Spencer asks, and it's flirtatious in nature. You have to remind yourself he's playing a part, you're undercover.

"Mmhm," you smile, resting your chin in your hand. You take another selfish moment, imagining what it would be like to do this with him for real. Being able to go over every insane part of your day together, to share a meal and walk home hand in hand, slightly tipsy.

"Guy's got eyes like a hawk," Spencer huffs, and you swear, you catch a bit of disdain there. It's different, not the same vein in which the team normally discusses a suspect. Almost...jealous.

"Yeah, well, we really need to give him a show if we want him over here," you giggle, lacing your hands with his over the table. "He's the most stubborn person I've ever known. It'd take a miracle to get him to approach me first."

You feel Spencer squeeze your hand at that, a vein popping in his forehead. He fixes his face quick, though, his free hand reaching to grace your cheek. It's then you truly realize the expanse of his hands, how tiny your cheek feels in comparison to his large palm.

"We better give him something to be real stubborn about, then," Spencer murmurs as he shifts closer, leaning his face closer to yours ever so slightly.

You sit like this for the briefest moment, taking in each freckle, scar, and dimple. You don't know when you'll be this close to him again, and he's too beautiful for you to pass up the opportunity to take all of him in.

Your attention is pulled by a low chuckle coming from the other end of the table, and your heart sinks. You know precisely who it belongs to, and you're brutally shoved back into the reality of your situation.

"Didn't think I'd ever see you here again," Preston's voice is gruff, angry. You know it all too well. Your eyes drag slowly towards him, refusing to leave Spencer's as your heart begins to race.

"Oh!" you exclaim in faux shock, and Preston rolls his eyes, the ice clinking in his glass. "Hey, you..." you trail off, eyes scanning him from top to bottom. A glint of playfulness dances in your eye, Rossi's words echoing in your brain. Make him think you still want him, even if you're with someone else. He's a narcissist, our profile says so, you know it. He won't be able to resist you if he thinks you still have feelings for him.

It makes you nauseous, and you fight off a shiver, letting it roll off your spine as to not give yourself away. Spencer squeezes your hand again, and it gives you the confidence to keep going. You flip your hair over your shoulder, letting your chin rest there as you bat your eyelashes.

"It's good to see you, how have you been?" you ask flirtatiously, a cunning smile curling your lips.

"Clearly not as good as you," he nods to Spencer without looking at him, taking a step closer to you.

Spencer tenses, you can feel it in the way his hand freezes in yours. You squeeze his this time.

"Yeah? And how good do you think I've been?" your tone is light, lilting, though your heart sits at the bottom of your stomach like a rock.

"Why don't you tell me?" his voice is low, an attempt to be sultry that flies right over you.

You see Spencer out of the corner of your eye, his trained on every move of the table Preston walked away from. He squeezes your hand again, a feather light tap of his finger letting you know he's got something. What it is, you're not sure.

Spencer pulls his hand from yours, a rough clearing of his throat breaking through the conversation. Finally, Preston turns his attention to Spencer. Nerves poke at your gut, hot and fiery.

"Who's this?" Preston asks, attempting to be nonchalant. His iron grip on his drink gives him away, though, clear as day.

You really didn't think it'd be this easy, but then you remember he cheated on you after five years with your best friend from high school. He clearly doesn't have much willpower, if any at all.

"Her boyfriend," Spencer punctuates that last word, anger lacing each syllable. Your brows quirk at his rather incredible acting abilities.

"Boyfriend?" Preston scoffs, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. "Don't tell me, sweetheart. Don't tell me you're taking another man here? On a Thursday?"

"I don't know," you twirl your hair. "What are you doing here on a Thursday? Don't tell me you've brought another girl here, hm?"

It truly scares you how easy it is to slip back into this version of yourself, the one that would have been content running Preston's errands and doing his dirty work. Thank God you left.

"You know I'd never, sweetheart," he drawls. God, he's laying that sweetheart name on thick. Disgust creeps up your gut like a spider at his tone. "I'm just with my buddies. We play poker here on Thursdays now."

"Poker?" Spencer interjects, "on a Thursday night? At a restaurant called The Westbury Club?"

"Yeah, you got a problem with that, man?" Preston defends, and you know the switch has flipped.

"I just think it's interesting..." Spencer trails off, swirling his wine around in his glass. "Where do you have the money for poker that often?"

"What's it to you? Last I checked, I was talking with your girl," the sarcasm drips off of him, "so I'd back off if I were you." Preston makes himself appear larger, puffing his chest in a way that looks laughable in comparison to Spencer's cool demeanor.

"No, no, you're right..." Spencer trails off, a smile painting his lips. "Just wondering, is all."

You see his gaze focus on something across the restaurant, his brown eyes squinting the way they do when he's found something big. It's not long until he's tapping into his wire, "Rossi, now."

He does his best to stay quiet, but it still pulls a, "What's a Rossi?" from Preston.

Spencer's eyes roll as the team busts into the restaurant, you whip towards the entrance to finally see what Spencer's been looking at. It's tiny, so minuscule that you're shocked Spencer caught it. A tiny bag of a certain powdery white substance dangles in between Rossi's fingers. Emily collects piles of white envelopes shoved under the table, thick wads of cash in each one of them.

"Drugs, really?" Spencer asks, sarcasm lacing his tone as he cuffs Preston with a little more force than necessary. You don't say anything. "We knew we had you on extortion. Maybe even murder. But drugs? I thought you'd be smarter than that."

The venom drips from Spencer's tongue as he walks him out, an iron grip on Preston's bound wrists. You'd never been so happy to see him in handcuffs.

"You can't charge me, you don't have anything, I'll call my lawyer!" Preston protests, all while Spencer talks over him, reading his Miranda Rights with a force you can only describe as incredibly sexy.

Rossi catches your gaze from the doorway of the restaurant, immediately clocking the way you're staring at Spencer. He chuckles, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance.

"Finally," you hear him murmur under his breath as he turns to leave.

You snap out of your Spencer-induced haze when the flash of cameras shine through the windows of the restaurant. You scurry over to the cameras, expertly answering questions as succinctly as possible. You see him from the corner of your eye, though, leaned up against the cop car he undoubtedly shoved your ex into. You can't help but meet his gaze, a coy smile hopefully conveying everything you've thought this whole night.

Spencer can't remember the last time he'd been in a situation so...tense. Every time an unsub had taken him, the time he spent in prison, none of it measures to the nerves pulsing through him as he drives her, and only her, back to their hotel.

"Hey," she calls out softly, a tentative hand reaching his thigh, "you did great today. I don't know how you spotted that bag. I would've completely missed it."

His heart stops at the gesture, her words along with it have the power to knock him out completely. He moves one hand to cover hers, and his brain goes fuzzy at the size difference.

"You're too hard on yourself. You were better than I was. You led the entire mission," it's nearly a whisper as it tumbles from his lips, the moment feeling entirely too intimate.

They pull up to a stop sign, tense silence settling over them. It blankets them in a thick warmth, almost suffocating. Then, on pure adrenaline, Spencer makes a decision he normally never would. He makes a right, instead of a left.

"Spencer?" she inquires, "this isn't the way back to the hotel."

He curses himself for thinking he'd fool her at all, that she wouldn't figure him out immediately.

"It's just a little detour. Do you trust me?"

She eyes him skeptically, and he curses men like Preston who have ever made her feel distrusting. She nods, though, and he feels like he's won the lottery.

They pull up to the parking lot of Herring Cove Beach, a large sign greeting them on their way in. He wastes no time exiting the car, running over to the passenger side to get hers.

"Spencer?" She inquires, taking his hand to step out of the car. "You're taking me back to the dump site?" humor laces her tone, and he shakes his head slightly.

"It's not just the dump site, is it?" Spencer asks, his voice low, his heart thrumming in his ears. This could all be a huge mistake, a huge misreading and he could be humiliated in a few seconds' time. Seeing her stand there, her heels in her hand, her dress hugging her in ways that's sinful, he takes the plunge.

She chuckles, a breathy laugh laced with nerves. "I grew up here," her voice is nostalgic, soft in a way that he can't resist. He laces his fingers with hers, exactly the way he did in the restaurant.

"I thought you'd want to come see it one more time. Not as a dump site," his voice is low, nervous still.

Her lips purse as she looks at him skeptically, though this time humor shines through. "You and Penelope spying on me?"

A laugh can't help but escape, pushing out of his lungs as if he'd have a choice. "Maybe something like that."

"Oh, yeah?" she teases, her own laugh breaking through, and God. He could spend the rest of his life listening to that sound and that sound alone.

"Yeah..." he trails, another silence settling over them.

She pulls his hand that rests in hers, marching them towards the shoreline. She plops down on the sand without second thought, and laughs when he looks at her sideways.

"Old habits die hard, huh?" she teases, and he laughs before relenting. He can buy another suit. The waves accompany this new silence now. She watches the moon as it rises over the water. He watches her.

"Spencer..." she mutters, and his heart picks up in speed. "I was hoping you were okay earlier. You'd been acting distant, off, since we touched down in Mass."

His heart clutches at the fact that she was worried about him, that she even noticed. He debates on what to say to her for a moment. He's made it this far, though. He might as well go for it all the way.

"I was jealous." It's matter of fact, and she whips her head to face him.

"Jealous? Don't tell me you were jealous of Preston, Spencer. He cheated on me with my best friend," she scoffs. His eyes go wide. She mentions it like it's no big deal, like it's not something that has tilted Spencer's earth on its axis.

He shakes his head, a pathetic laugh spilling over his lips. "I guess I had a hard time accepting that you shared so much with someone so...awful. You deserve more than that."

"Yes, I do. Thank you for noticing," she nudges his shoulder with hers, and it's his heart's final straw.

"I think I have feelings for you." It's low, he's not even sure he's said it until she says it back.

"You think, or you know?" She asks softly.

"I know."

She smiles, then. It's sweet, and makes his heart sing.

"I have feelings for you too, Spencer. Ever since we first met." Her confession rocks him. "I think the whole team has waited for us to do this. Rossi caught me staring at you when you were walking Preston out, muttered something like 'finally'."

He chuckles at that, and she buries her face into his bicep. He needs to feel more of her immediately, or he'll combust. It's science.

His hands wrap around her wrist, pulling her into him fully. Her giggles pick up, then, and he can feel the heat radiating off her face.

"Spencer!" she squeals, giggles punctuating each syllable. Her nose grazes his, and he feels the last of his resolve crumble. His hands cup her jaw as his lips slot over hers. The surprised moan against his lips makes his head spin.

She rests her hands on his shoulders, her fingers curling at the base of his neck. He deepens the kiss, opening his mouth to let her take all of him that she wants.

His hands drift to her waist, pulling her in so her plush chest presses into his. It makes him dizzy. He deepens the kiss even more, as if it's possible. The crash of the waves along the shore accompanies them as her body twists into his, fitting like a puzzle piece.

When she comes up for air, it's like his heart has been snatched clean out. Her lips are plump, glossy and swollen, eyes glossed over, a dazed look in her eye.

"Hey, Spencer?" she asks, and it's so flirty that he nearly melts.

"Yeah?" he whispers, nudging his nose along her cheek, down her neck. She shivers and he revels in it, holding her body tighter under his large palms.

"I really like you," she says, burying her face in his neck as if her words don't knock the absolute wind out of him.

Their phones buzz between them, a bucket of cold water over their heated moment.

"Oh, God," she groans, "do you think we've been found out?" Her voice is excited, like they're sneaking around from overbearing parents. He nearly crumbles.

"Seems like it," Spencer notes, his cheeks heating up as he looks at his phone.

Emily: We've been waiting by the plane for 10 minutes. Both your bags are packed. You got a lot of explaining to do ;)

Spencer no doubt flushes the shade of a tomato, but her laugh makes it all worth it. He presses one more quick kiss to her plump lips before helping her out of the sand, and back to a team who will no doubt have a million questions. She’s completely worth it.

[darkmatilda]

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you join the team as a replacement after jj's departure. despite the initial stress and difficulties adapting, you manage to fully connect with the rest of the team. more than that—you make friends. and fall in love. but after unexpected events and returns, your time with them comes to an end—because, in the end, you were only a placeholder.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x bau!female reader, reader is an anxious overthinker whom i want to hug so badly, my intention was not to antagonize jj and i don't want it to be perceived that way, possibly incorrect infodump about tiramisu—offended italians, please don’t come to my house with torches and forks, melancholic, sad ending aka matilda's standard

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.3k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

6 months ago…

If you look at it in a certain way, almost everything started with tiramisu. Or rather, it started with your conversation with Penelope—overheard by Rossi—where you boasted about being an expert at making this Italian dessert. Or perhaps the most accurate statement would be that it started with JJ. After all, you were brought into the Behavioral Analysis Unit as her replacement — their new, young media liaison, meant to gain more experience through the role. 

Anyway, that Saturday evening, you felt a slight chill on your shoulders as you stepped out of the car, clutching a massive tray of freshly made tiramisu and silently praying not to drop it before making it inside. Rossi’s house—excuse me, his mansion—truly looked impressive.

 You couldn’t say you weren’t nervous. In fact, you were absolutely terrified—and not because of what the senior member of your new team might say about your baking skills. It was something else entirely.Eeryone had been invited that evening, including the team members you hadn’t yet gotten to know outside of work. Your relationship with them was strictly professional, and more often than not, you caught yourself wanting to appear flawless in their eyes. To prove that, despite your lack of experience, you were worthy of taking on this role. That, despite your relatively young age, you were mature and responsible.

So yes, you were nervous. In fact, the anxiety grew with every step you took toward the door, your grip on the tray tightening until your knuckles turned white.That didn’t stop you from almost dropping it when you suddenly jumped at the sound of your name spoken from behind.

 "Oh my—" you gasped, inhaling sharply, instinctively wanting to clutch your chest—except both your hands were occupied.

Spencer Reid's brown eyes widened as he realized just how badly he had startled you.

 "Sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s fine," you assured him, nodding a little too quickly. You took a slower breath, feeling slightly embarrassed. You worked with people who hunted serial killers for a living, delved into the darkest, most nightmarish cases—and yet, you nearly had a heart attack just because someone called your name.

 In your defense, you were a woman alone at night, and a tray of tiramisu wasn’t exactly the deadliest weapon.Noticing the guilt still lingering on his face, you forced a smile and lifted the tray slightly. "I mean it. As long as I didn’t drop the cake, everything’s fine."

He stood before you with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, a purple scarf draped around his neck. The corners of his lips lifted slightly at your response, but you knew it was just a polite gesture—there was nothing particularly amusing about what you’d said.

You suddenly became aware of the silence stretching between you, neither of you moving, the moment teetering on the edge of awkwardness. You cleared your throat. Maybe you should compliment the scarf. You couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by him. 

After all, this was Dr. Spencer Reid—the man whose name had once reached your ears and settled somewhere in your thoughts, cementing itself under the label of genius. That was the lens through which you saw him, having yet to familiarize yourself with any of his other traits.

What you had noticed, however, was that he seemed to prefer keeping you at a distance. And yes, it all traced back to your first meeting—your first greeting, your first outstretched hand, and the first, slightly awkward:

It’s actually safer to kiss.

“You think we’re the first ones here?" you asked, just before pressing the doorbell. Then, hesitating, you bit the inside of your cheek. "Actually…maybe we’re a little too early." 

"I think we’re fine," he replied. "Rossi said eight."

You gave a small nod. The door swung open.

“What are you doing here so early?" You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

"If I remember correctly—and I do—you said eight. It’s eight."

"Decent people show up fashionably late."

"And then you’d complain that the younger generation doesn’t respect your time."

You watched the exchange in silence, noticing the flicker of amusement in both men’s eyes. Of course, they weren’t actually arguing—just friendly banter. Still, something about it caught your attention. You wondered if you’d ever feel comfortable enough around them to join in like that.

He stepped aside to let you both in, and as you crossed the threshold, you realized you hadn’t said a word yet. 

“As promised," you started, nodding toward the dessert in your hands. "My specialty."

Rossi raised an eyebrow at you.

"We’ll see about that. “

But he did take the tray from you while you slipped off your coat. 

"I was actually about to make an important call," he announced. "Before someone decided to show up early. So, if you’ll excuse me, you’ll have to entertain yourselves for a bit. Be so kind as not to destroy my kitchen. Everyone else should be here soon."

And with that, he simply left you there. 

Reid clearly knew his way around the house—he had to—because without hesitation, he led you straight to the kitchen, where you set the dessert down on the black marble countertop. And just like that, the two of you were left alone, connected by a slightly awkward silence.

"Maybe I should cut it," you mused, your gaze falling on the tiramisu. "Rossi wouldn’t mind if I used his knives, right?" 

"I don’t think so," he said, standing on the other side of the kitchen island, made of white wood with plenty of drawers.

To your surprise, you realized he was watching your movements. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to realize that you noticed it from the corner of your eye. Or maybe you were imagining it, but you could swear you heard him swallow.

"You know, there are many theories about when and how tiramisu was actually invented," he remarked.

 "I don't think I've heard any of them," you admitted, glancing around for a knife. "I mean, I can make it, but I can’t explain…the historical context behind it" 

He leaned his elbows on the counter, briefly lowering his gaze to his hands. The sleeves of his purple shirt remained slightly rolled up, not quite reaching his wrists.

"It originated in Italy, of course. And the most popular version says it was invented in the 1960s in Treviso. At least, before that period, the name doesn’t appear in any sources."

Focused on cutting the cake evenly, unconsciously sticking out the tip of your tongue, you couldn’t muster any reaction, but you listened intently. Spencer, however, seemed to think otherwise—after briefly glancing at your face, he looked away, apparently deciding to drop the topic.

"What does it mean?" you asked. Your eyes met, and for a moment, he looked surprised. "I mean, what does the name mean?" you clarified with a gentle smile. "I should probably expand my knowledge. What if Rossi decides to quiz me?"

After a brief moment, a small, friendly smile bloomed on his lips.

"Well, in that case, I’ll do my best to prepare you."

You hadn’t been working together for long, but even so, you had already discovered—fascinated—that he was a true wellspring of knowledge, with no apparent limits to his mind. Sometimes, he would lose his train of thought—you had noticed that too. And sometimes, he would stumble when he realized it himself. You found it somewhat endearing. Or at the very least, well…you liked listening to it.

Somewhere around the time you had been acquainted with three theories about its origin, the etymology of its name, the original recipe and its variations, as well as a few interesting fun facts about tiramisu—which you listened to without even realizing that you were still holding the knife despite having finished cutting the cake—the sound of the host’s footsteps reached you. But they weren’t headed in your direction. Instead, he made his way to the door to let the other guests in.

You tried to relax your shoulders, aiming to appear at ease. Bodies are often treacherous and rarely care about how you wish to be perceived. Instead, they ignore your intentions and take cues from your subconscious—and subconsciously, you were stressed.

You quietly scolded yourself, shaking your head slightly. After all, they were all profilers—experts at reading body language. As if on cue, just as the thought crossed your mind, you accidentally caught Reid’s gaze fixed on you. You shrugged, the corners of your lips lifting slightly, feigning ignorance.

Truthfully, you weren’t entirely sure what was going through your own head. Maybe it was that deep-seated belief that you always had to present yourself at your best—worthy of this job. Even though this was supposed to be a casual gathering, off the clock, in your free time.

“You guys already here?” Prentiss raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Spencer on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Hotch followed behind her, nodding in greeting. “We’re not late, are we?”

“We’re late?” Penelope’s voice rang out as she peeked into the room, her head appearing in the doorway. She stopped short, and Morgan, walking right behind her, gently grabbed her shoulders to keep from bumping into her.

“It’s just me, baby girl,” he reassured her, a faint smirk on his lips. “Or maybe too much me, judging by that jump. Hey, everyone. Reid. New girl. Good to see you. Not sick of us yet after this week, are you?"

"Oh, come on, don’t act like we’re that unbearable," Prentiss chided, shooting him a look.

By then, everyone had made their way inside, starting to take seats on the high bar stools. You stood there, returning smiles and greetings, and let Garcia pull you into a hug. Derek called you New girl. While you'd grown to like him, the nickname didn’t sit quite right with you. It highlighted your place in the team, making it clear that you weren’t quite like the rest of them.

"Actually, the way we perceive ourselves can be different from how we really are, simply because of how much time we spend together," Spencer mused aloud.

"You might be onto something," Morgan nodded at him, then turned his gaze back to you. "Let’s get an outside opinion. Are we unbearable?"

"You are," Rossi confirmed immediately, not even glancing up from the wine bottle in his hands, likely searching for the vintage.

"I said outside opinion."

Then, all the curious gazes had settled on you. Up until now, your hands had rested casually on the counter, but you pulled them away to hide how anxiously they were moving. Spencer tracked the motion with his eyes—something you caught in your peripheral vision, and you had to resist the urge to curse under your breath. Hiding your anxiety from these people, especially from him, was proving harder than you’d expected.

You hesitated, searching for the perfect answer. You often caught yourself doing this in social situations—as if this were a test question with only one correct response, rather than a casual conversation where anything you said would be fine as long as it was honest.

That evening, everyone seemed to be in good spirits. They were joking easily, teasing one another, and now that all their attention was focused on you, you wanted to say something that would blend you into the moment, something that would break the ice. This was your first time meeting outside of work.

But the longer you stayed silent, the more the right words slipped away from you. It was like a black curtain had suddenly dropped over your mind.

"Who wants to try the tiramisu?" you blurted out at last.

An unbearable awkwardness tightened around your chest—but then, to your surprise, Prentiss laughed, setting off the rest of the group.

"I’m not accepting this subject change," Morgan shook his head.

"I, on the other hand, think it was a good move. Almost diplomatic," Spencer countered. His gaze flickered toward you for a brief second, and you caught something there—though you weren’t entirely sure what. Understanding, maybe? Either way, you felt the urge to flash a grateful smile at both him and Emily.

But Spencer quickly refocused on Derek, directing his next words at him. "Because the real answer could be…” he lowered his voice dramatically,  "…mercilessly brutal."

“Oh, you’re all wrong," Penelope rolled her eyes. "Obviously, she was going to say she’s already fallen in love with all of us. Right, sweetheart?" She turned to you but didn’t wait for an answer—actually, you didn’t even have time to move, let alone speak. "See? Just like I said. Now, let’s try that cake, because I can’t stand the way it’s looking at me with those heavenly little eyes..."

The tight, complicated knot in your stomach started to loosen, little by little. Garcia’s suggestion was met with general enthusiasm and quickly turned into action. Naturally, Rossi had to be the first to take a bite. Everyone’s eyes locked onto him as he slowly swallowed a microscopic piece, as if he were some renowned food critic. You could see amusement on everyone’s faces—even Hotch’s—which was a completely new experience for you.

After a long, tension-filled moment, Rossi gave a slight nod of approval.

You placed a hand over your chest in mock relief.

“That’s the proudest I’ve felt since I got my diploma," you said casually—straightforward, natural, without overthinking.

Maybe you really were starting to open up.

Time moved forward at a gentle pace, and while you didn’t suddenly become the life of the party, the friendly atmosphere started to get to you. You all opened the bottle of wine the host had brought, raising your glasses in a toast to whatever came to mind—after all, there was no real occasion to celebrate.

You noticed that Spencer wasn’t drinking, but he still joined in, lifting a handful of chips instead. The sight made you smile softly before you could stop yourself.

He noticed you watching him. In the background, conversation buzzed, someone laughed loudly, but for a moment, it felt like the two of you were elsewhere.

“Well…” he started, swallowing nervously. You hoped he didn’t feel pressured into making conversation just because you were looking at him. Though, another thought crept in—what other reason could he have for feeling awkward? Only after a beat did you realize that you often felt that way too, for no particular reason. That was just how you were. Apparently, so was he.

“What did you do before?” he asked, then immediately backtracked. “I mean, I know what, of course I know—that’s public information, if you know what I mean. I just meant more like…” He sighed, lowering his gaze for a second, as if exhausted by his own rambling. Then, he tried again, slower this time. “I meant, how do you feel about it? And about the change?”

His question piqued the interest of the others, their gazes shifting back to you. Whatever had momentarily set the two of you apart from the group vanished in an instant.

Just as you opened your mouth to respond, a sound cut through the conversation.

“That’s mine, sorry,” Prentiss apologized, reaching into her pocket for her ringing phone. She didn’t even glance at the screen at first, her thumb already poised to decline the call—until she hesitated. Her expression shifted in an instant, lighting up with surprise. “Oh my God, it’s JJ!”

Everyone reacted similarly, and you tried to mirror their excitement, summoning a smile to your face—though it lacked sincerity. It wasn’t out of any personal dislike toward Jareau; nothing like that. You had met her, of course—you were taking her place, after all, and she had to introduce you to everything quickly. But it hadn’t been enough to form a deep friendship, or any friendship at all. That made you the only one in this group who felt completely neutral about her.

“Oh, you have to answer,” Penelope urged, nodding enthusiastically. “Totally. And tell her I say hi!”

“And me,” Spencer and Morgan added almost simultaneously.

“From all of us,” Hotch clarified, with Rossi confirming it with a nod.

Prentiss stood from her seat, clearly intending to step out of the kitchen to take the call in private—it was meant for her, after all. But just before she left, she hesitated in the doorway, as if mentally going over the instructions.

“Say hi from everyone. Got it,” she muttered under her breath.

“Especially from Penelope.”

“And from—”

“Everyone. Got it.”

When Prentiss’ dark hair disappeared from view, a brief silence settled over the group, broken only by Garcia’s deep sigh.

“I miss her. A lot.”

“It’s not like she died, babygirl,” Derek responded with a teasing edge, though something in his tone—between the words—carried a similar feeling.

“Ugh, you know what I mean,” Garcia huffed at him. “I miss having her with us. At work. In the team. Remember…remember how she always used to…”

She drifted into a story, weaving nostalgic but ultimately amused expressions onto her friends’ faces. You caught a glimpse of Spencer out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he still remembered the question he had asked you before the phone rang. But his gaze was fixed on Garcia, listening to her tale with a small smile forming at the corners of his lips.

You tuned out for a moment, lost in your own thoughts, only to be pulled back to reality by an outburst of laughter. You had missed a good chunk of the story—though you weren’t sure if it mattered. Some anecdotes, especially the ones built on shared memories, were meant for everyone’s ears but truly reached only those who had been there. You suspected this was one of them, but still, you joined in on the laughter. Even if you hadn’t caught the joke, you didn’t want to dampen the mood with a blank expression.

You tried to push away the feeling of not belonging. It was difficult at first, but then you realized—that wasn’t the way. You couldn’t push it away; you had to accept it. Because the truth was, you didn’t quite belong. Or rather, you hadn’t belonged long enough. That was natural. You would feel this way for who knows how long, but certainly for a while. As long as the nickname New Girl still clung to you.

Surprisingly, that very acceptance made the rest of the evening easier to get through. Prentiss returned after a while, briefly summarizing what JJ had been up to, but the conversation didn’t linger on her. The knot in your stomach didn’t tighten again. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was something else. Maybe, for the first time, you were starting to feel okay.

*

now 

You recalled that specific moment in your memories, simultaneously sinking into it as if it were happening in real time, yet with the suffocating weight of reality breathing down your neck—a voice whispering that it was just a memory.

If it were happening now, Emily wouldn’t have left the room to take the call. No phone would have even rung. Emily was gone. You had just been to her funeral.

At an hour when most people were deep in sleep, when street advertisements and billboards cut through the darkness, illuminating the city more effectively than the stars ever could, you were half-sitting, half-lying on your bed, your back pressed against the headboard. The dark room was filled with nothing but shapes, mere outlines of furniture—just like your mind was filled only with fragments and silhouettes of thoughts. Frayed, scattered, following no chronology or pattern.

It had been six months since you joined the BAU. Some might say that’s not enough time to form real friendships. But in a job where you could die any day, six months was plenty. In those circumstances, attachment only formed faster.

Your eyelids burned with exhaustion, but you couldn’t close them. With a heavy weight in your chest, for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you kept replaying that moment—that evening at Rossi’s. Those conversations echoed vividly in your mind, but over time, they began to fade, pushed aside by another sound.

Breathing.

Not yours.

Oh. Right.

That night, you didn’t sleep alone.

While you sat on the bed, Spencer lay on his side, his back turned to you, his head resting somewhere near your hip. You weren’t sure how it had happened.

Sleeping in the same bed wasn’t something natural for the two of you—not as just friends. Though over the past two months, that label might have been debatable in the eyes of many. You had never really defined it between yourselves, so you kept calling it friendship.

You weren’t exactly sure how it had happened that night, specifically. After the funeral, after that entire exhausting day, when the sun had set, you had somehow, instinctively, ended up moving in the same direction—toward his apartment. And somehow, instinctively, you had kept postponing the moment of leaving. But when it finally came, his lips had somehow, instinctively, formed the word stay.

So you stayed, changing out of your funeral attire into one of his random T-shirts, the scent of it tickling your nose as you finally lay down, your back turned to him.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, but what could you say? What could you do? In moments like these, everyone was alone in their own way. Maybe that was why it was so important to have someone there, physically—but even that didn’t quite apply to your situation. His bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that neither of you touched. So, in a way, you were alone in both senses, but it didn’t sting as much, mostly because of the scent surrounding you, wrapping around you like an embrace.

You even managed to close your eyes—not that it meant you’d actually sleep. In fact, you felt just as far from it as when they were wide open. At least they didn’t burn anymore.

At some point—after an amount of time you couldn’t track—the scent deepened, became stronger. You tensed, unsure why, until it finally dawned on you with a quiet exhale.

It wasn’t just the scent of his T-shirt. It was him.

Moving closer.

First just slightly, then more. Until eventually, his arm draped over your curled-up frame, his hand settling somewhere against your stomach, where the fabric of the blanket bunched up. 

A delicate tickle against your neck. His breath, his head almost nestled in the crook of it.

Definitely awake—you could tell by the rhythm.

And it was him. Spencer.

It’s actually safer to kiss Spencer.

"Are you awake?" he asked, so quietly the words barely brushed the air. There was a chance they hadn’t even spoken at all. Maybe it was just the sound of his breath, somehow resembling them. Maybe it was just your exhausted imagination.

Still, you chose to answer.

"No," you murmured. "I can't sleep."

"Me neither," he added, though that much was obvious. A shift of his head, an unconscious brush against your neck, sending the faintest shiver down your spine. “Does this bother you?"

"It’s nice," you said softly, unsure of what else you could add. You didn’t really want to speak. His words melted smoothly into the quiet, while yours cut through it—harsh, even when you tried to whisper.

Maybe he took it as hesitation, because his body tensed for a brief second before he started to pull away.

"No…" You tried to stop him, your hand catching his forearm—the one holding you. "Just…stay."

"Oh. Okay."

As if following your request to the letter, he stayed exactly where he was. More than that, he seemed to settle into it even further. The pressure of his chest against your back felt good. You heard him swallow, close to your ear. “Th-thank you. I don’t think…I don’t think I could—I don’t think I’d be able to fall asleep alone. Not tonight.”

You didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, you just adjusted your grip, holding it more comfortably.

*

And just when you were starting to come to terms with it, you suddenly found out that Emily was still alive. You could say she had never died, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Well, in a way, yes—her body never stopped functioning, nor was it buried in a coffin. But in your minds, in your belief, in your feelings, it was different. You buried her and went through the grieving process. To you, she was dead.

When she reappeared, everything was too chaotic to dwell on it. There was no shock, no tears—you had your hands full, focused on capturing Doyle.

The realization of it all began to sink in for you, as well as for the rest of the team, only later. She had faked her death. She had allowed you to mourn her. And what was even more shocking to you—JJ had known all along. You knew the two of them trusted each other deeply, but in some way, you couldn't grasp it. How she could stand beside you at the funeral, shedding a few tears, offering comforting pats on the back. How she could keep up the act for days, weeks, and months.

You knew Spencer was furious with her. It was obvious—the anger was clear in his eyes. But even if he had tried to hide it, you would have known. Because ever since Emily's supposed death, the two of you had grown even closer.

Nights spent side by side had become something that no longer required a quiet request; they had become entirely natural for you both. That was how you saw it—a way for two friends to cope with grief and sleepless hours.

You probably should have talked about your relationship. It was something you thought about often—when his sleepy breath brushed against your neck, when his lips occasionally grazed it while he spoke. You should have talked, but that didn’t mean you did.

Maybe you were both too focused on other things to worry about your feelings for each other.

Either way, at first, he was furious with her. You accidentally overheard part of their argument about it, just as you were also an accidental witness to the embrace they pulled each other into when they finally decided to let it go.

A certain skepticism lingered within you. Of course, you didn’t want to dictate whom he could forgive or what he was allowed to demand—that was his decision alone. You understood that. And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about how you were the one who had watched what those past months had done to him. How close he had come to slipping back into that. 

When his relationship with JJ had finally returned to normal, you couldn’t hold back anymore—you tried to bring it up.

All you got in response was You wouldn’t understand.

And perhaps he was right. Some things simply weren’t yours to understand—not as someone who had only recently entered his life. Unlike JJ, you hadn’t been there for years.

As they quickly rebuilt their trust, their dynamic, their friendship, a strange, somber thought crossed your mind. You started wondering if, from the very beginning, you had only been filling the space she left behind—just as you had done with the team, stepping into her role.

Before, you had convinced yourself that his friendship with her was entirely different from what he had with you. Because with you, you had foolishly believed, it wasn’t just friendship.

But the more time passed, the more you started to realize that maybe—maybe that had only ever been wishful thinking.

These were the kind of worries you kept entirely to yourself, but at the same time, they gnawed at you from the inside, needing to be shared with someone.

You wanted to talk to someone about it, but there was no one to turn to. I mean, everything was the same as always. Everyone loved JJ—they never stopped—and you were the new, younger girl who might have seemed like she was speaking badly about her out of pure, immature jealousy.

Until now, aside from Spencer, the person you were closest to was Prentiss, but for obvious reasons, you couldn’t go to her. Besides, she would have chosen JJ over you too. That was undeniable.

And that’s how, somehow, you ended up standing outside Penelope’s office, telling yourself that maybe she would understand.

But just as you were about to open the door, doubt crept in. You sighed and leaned your back against the wall. Maybe, when it came to this, there was simply no one on the team you could turn to.

You abandoned the idea entirely, yet your feet refused to move. There was so much internal, mental exhaustion weighing you down. So many sleepless nights, so much stress and worry, so much uncertainty and so many questions.

You heard footsteps approaching. Turning your head to the side, you saw Hotch stopping just two steps away from you. For a moment, he simply looked at you in silence, studying your face.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," you replied flatly. You couldn’t breathe properly. You already knew—had known the moment he stopped—that he wasn’t here to ask about how you were feeling.

"Just tired."

He gave a slow nod.

"I need to have a word with you."

Pressing your teeth into the inside of your cheek, you nodded back.

*

You didn’t actually keep many personal things in the office.

You made sure the rest of the team had been sent out into the field before you started packing them into a small box. They fit easily—it wasn’t even heavy. And yet, as you stared at it sitting on your desk, it felt impossibly difficult to lift.

You guessed flawlessly what Hotch wanted to talk to you about because, in a way, it was obvious.

JJ was back. Emily was back. The team had too many members now, and someone had to go. And the choice was just as obvious.

Honestly, you weren’t even angry. It had to be you—the placeholder.

But if you were aware of that, why did something bitter nest in your throat?      

Before you could take even two steps forward toward the exit, Spencer had already reached you, hesitantly extending his hands.

 "Let me help—"

 "No need," you said, tucking the box under your arm, keeping it out of his reach.

For a moment, you both just stared at each other in silence. You had no idea what to say. In fact, it was hard to even look at him. That was why you wanted to do this alone—to just leave quietly. You didn't even know why he was there. You must have miscalculated something, or maybe they had simply come back earlier.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he, too, remained silent. Walking past him now would signal anger, resentment—but that wasn’t exactly what you felt. So you stood in front of him, waiting for him to speak.

"You're leaving," he finally said, swallowing hard. A statement of fact he could have easily left unsaid. Adjusting the box in your arms, you simply nodded.

"I mean—what I wanted to say is… just remember that you're my friend. And I hope you still will be, even…even if we’re not working together. This doesn’t really change anything."

But if you hadn’t worked together, you never would have met. Never would have grown close. Besides, it wasn’t even the job that had stood in your way. It was something else—something simpler, because it depended only on the two of you, yet for that very reason, it was also much more complicated. Specifically, communication.

"I know," you admitted with a slight nod, though without much conviction.

Spencer tried to smile, briefly catching your gaze—one you immediately dropped to the box in your hands before he could read anything from your eyes.

"I have to go now. This is starting to get a little heavy."

"You know, I can really help you—"

"It's fine," you cut him off firmly. "It's really fine, Spencer."

He let out a quiet sigh of surrender as you headed toward the exit.

[pathologicalreid]

burn notice | s.r.

in which your workplace is targeted by a group of extremists, and Spencer tries everything to keep you safe

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: fighting, threats, arson/explosion, politics, mass casualty event, sole survivor, greek mythology my beloved, public transit word count: 2.34k a/n: i genuinely think my laptop is going to start smoking if i leave it on for much longer.

You pull your knees to your chest, sitting on the floor next to Spencer’s desk while he speaks with Hotch about the case. JJ waves at you solemnly before she heads out of the bullpen, leaving you as the last person. Setting your chin on your knee, you close your eyes and wonder how things got so messed up so quickly.

Someone was threatening your work, the threats weren’t directed at you personally, but with the way Spencer was acting, it might as well have been. The BAU had been called in by D.C. Metro yesterday, and that was when Spencer started acting overprotective.

The letters were demanding all of the money from a political action campaign, something you couldn’t give away. The money wasn’t yours to give. “Are you alright?” Spencer asks, having made his way down to his desk.

Accepting his hand up, you sigh, resting your cheek against his chest when he pulls you in for a hug. “Just a long day,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist and finally letting yourself relax.

He chuckles lightly at your colossal understatement of the day’s events, gently rubbing your back before he goes to pick his messenger bag up, slinging it over his shoulder before taking your hand, “What do you say we order something out for dinner?”

You hum in response, “I think it’s pretty obvious that neither of us is in the mood to cook.” You don’t even need to bring up the fact that it’s eight p.m., you could be heading home at five and you still wouldn’t have it in you to cook a meal. You slip your hand in his while you’re heading to the elevator, waving briefly at Hotch as he locks up his office.

Spencer lets you sit on the metro, standing until it’s time to switch lines and he finds a seat while you’re headed to Farragut North. You rest your head on his shoulder, wondering if the food you ordered on the phone was going to beat you to the apartment.

You’re half asleep by the time you get to Van Ness, and Spencer practically drags you behind him as you exit the station and walk back to the apartment. As you expect, your food is waiting for you on the welcome mat, complete with the handwritten note from your favorite delivery driver, “God, this smells good.” You say, holding the warm take-out containers in your arms while Spencer opens the front door.

Setting everything on the kitchen counter, you retreat briefly to the bedroom to change your clothes, pulling on an old t-shirt before returning to the kitchen, taking your container, and sitting on the couch. “Are you going to work tomorrow?”

With food in your mouth, you nod at Spencer, watching him sit down on the other end of the couch. Swallowing, you shrug, “It’s election season, Spence. This is one of my busiest times of the year.”

“But there’s a group of people threatening to blow up the building that you work in,” Spencer reminds you, mixing up his food with his fork.

This isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation today. “At the end of the day, it’s up to my boss to decide whether or not we get to take the day off or if we have to go into the office, and he said that anyone who doesn’t come in tomorrow gets fired.”

Spencer’s gaze narrows, “I quite honestly don’t care. I’d rather we go to having a single income than have you die in a domestic terrorism incident” He points his fork at you, “And for what it’s worth, your boss is an asshole.”

You huff in recognition, now that was something you were well aware of. This job was supposed to be your way in. A stepping stone on your way to being a liaison in the White House, but the world had started to slow down from the moment you entered the world of politics. Every ounce of excitement that you had felt when you first moved to D.C. was fleeting.

Work sapped joy from your life, and everyone around you knew it.

Fiddling with your chopsticks, you dig around in your takeout container for a carrot, “Do you think we could talk about something other than work?”

“I can’t stop thinking about how tonight might be my last night with you,” Spencer says morbidly, aggressively stabbing at his container. It was Spencer’s greatest blessing and his eternal damnation, being able to think so quickly and operate in a way that left his peers miles behind.

He saw the solution so plainly in front of him, standing in his pool of water with a fruit tree creating a foreboding shadow above him, but every time he reached out with the answer, you retreated. “DHS didn’t think it was a credible threat,” you murmur, setting your food down on the coffee table so you can attempt to have a real conversation with him about this.

Spencer huffs in response, the hair blowing strands of his hair around his face, “DHS isn’t emotionally involved in this case.”

You tilt your head to the side, “Do you think maybe you’re too close to this? What did Hotch say?”

“Fuck off,” he snaps. It was an instinctive reaction to your pushing, but that didn’t make the sting any less painful.

Crossing your arms in front of your stomach, you shrink back into your side of the couch, “Is that what you told Hotch, too?” You watch his reaction, the way he presses his lips together in acute shame for what he said to you, but he won’t take it back, and he won’t apologize for it. Not right now, at least.

He’s just afraid, you try to remind yourself. Spencer’s terrified of something happening to you and he has some sort of deep-seated inability to process fear, so when he gets scared, he gets mean. Right now, he was taking his fear out on you, and if something was going to happen to you tomorrow, you didn’t want him to spend his time lashing out.

You turn on the TV, flipping to a program that the both of you like before going back to your dinner, manifesting that the tense silence between the two of you turns peaceful before it’s too late.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?” Nadine asks you, nudging your side gently with her elbow until you snap out of your fugue. “Are you heading home for dinner?”

Checking the time on your watch, you nod absentmindedly, “Probably,” your voice is rough from lack of use, spending so much of your day just staring at election models. You have the privilege of being the only employee who lives close enough to be able to go home for meals—you’d packed a lunch, but you have to stop at home for dinner.

In an unsurprising turn of events, your team was staying late at work tonight. You’d already texted Spencer to let him know, but you doubt that he even looked at your message. “Hey, at least no crazy person came and blew up the office,” she continues, noticing your melancholia.

You laugh without humor, a dry empty sound in response to your co-worker tempting fate. “Yeah, at least there’s that,” you respond, noting the strange air that remains in the suite, people are still thinking about the threat, even if they’re too scared to say it aloud.

Walking back to the office after making a sandwich at home, you pull your phone out of your purse and try to haphazardly type out an on my way text to Nadine, but when you send it, it doesn’t go through. Shaking it off, you drop your phone back in your purse and keep walking, sirens passing on the street as something goes on in the city. You think about texting Spencer again but decide against it—it’s better to give him his space.

A passing pedestrian knocks into you, getting you to lift your head to frown at him, but he just keeps running forward, not even bothering to throw a sorry over his shoulder.

“Is that building on fire?” Someone asks, and your heart sinks into your stomach at the question, picking up your own pace as tufts of smoke billow into the sky, suspiciously close to where your office is.

There’s a mob forming behind the police line, people who were in the middle of their commutes home when they found something to gawk at. Even people who choose to keep walking are rubbernecking, making double steps to look at the building for a split second longer. “Isn’t that the councilman’s office?”

“No,” you breathe, watching the flames as they only grow. The crowd clutches their pearls as people ask about people jumping from the building, your friends who would rather jump and possibly survive than burn to death. People run past you to get closer while you can’t do anything except watch in horror.

It’s not until one of the windows shatters that you move again, the location of the window right next to where you and Nadine had been standing earlier. You push through the crowd, trying to reach the police barricade as people ask Metro PD for answers.

You try to duck under the police tape before someone pushes you back, “No!” You cry, “No, no, no! Please let me through! I work here,” you try to explain through gasping breaths, “This is my job! These are my friends!” You shout over the ruckus, the smell of the fire filling your senses.

“Ma’am, ma’am,” one of the officers talks down to you, “We’re under strict orders from the FBI that no one is allowed to get through.” His voice doesn’t have an ounce of sympathy in it, and it pushes you closer to the ledge.

You point at him accusingly, “Fuck your orders! Let me talk to the FBI!” Desperation oozes from you in every direction as the crowd steps away from the crazy woman shouting about the FBI. “I know them all,” you plead, “just let me talk to them!”

The officer holds his hands out, “Ma’am, I don’t want to have to remove you from the scene.”

But you’ve already moved on from him, noticing a familiar cascade of dark hair on the other side of the barricade, “Oh my god, Emily!” Your voice is comparable to a shriek as you try to get her attention, “Emily, please!”

Relief floods your chest as her head snaps in the direction of your shouting, a confused look quickly morphing into shock as she recognizes you. “Let her through,” She calls to the officers, looking at you as if she’s seen a ghost. “What’s going on?”

You run to her first, adrenaline thrumming through every part of your body as you point to the two officers who made an enemy of you, “Those two won’t fucking listen to me!”

“We thought you were in the building,” Emily says, her tone is eerie, almost haunted.

Gasping for air, you wave your hand around at the building, babbling something about dinner and the walk while she continues to monitor your surroundings.

She places her hands on your shoulders to stop you from bouncing around, “Y/N, Spencer thinks you were inside the building.”

It’s like she’s knocked the hair out of your lungs, you shake your head, “I wasn’t. I was at home. I left for…” your voice trails off at the realization that at this very moment, Spencer thinks you’re dead. At the very least he thinks you’re trapped inside of that building when you very likely could’ve been at the apartment that you share while the fire was set.

“Reid!” Emily calls into her radio, rolling her eyes in frustration, “He took his earbud out.”

You tug at her arm, “Where is he?” Your voice broke, grief flooding your eyes as she communicated with the team.

She nods her head to the left, “He’s on the north side of the building.”

Not even waiting for her to finish her sentence, you took off in a full sprint, ignoring other people looking at you like you’re insane because the only thing you can think of is getting to Spencer. “Spencer!” You shout, your voice ragged from running, throat swelling with emotion as you scream for him.

JJ sees you first, “Reid!”

And you see him. It looks like Derek’s holding him back, stopping him from running into the building when you call out again, “Spence!”

He turns just in time to catch you, nearly toppling onto the ground as you launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him while he holds you so tightly that your feet lift off of the ground.

“Yeah, Emily,” Derek says into his radio, “We’ve got her.”

Your hands tremble with an assortment of emotions as you grip the straps of his Kevlar vest, depending on him to keep you standing, “I’m okay,” you babble, “I wasn’t in there.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer responds, burying his face in your neck, you hold him impossibly tight as his tears hit your skin, eliciting a sob from the back of your throat.

You gasp, “I know. It’s okay. I’m okay,” you repeat like a mantra, a collection of words that needs to be tattooed on his brain. “We’re okay,” you tell him, smiling faintly as he walks backward to an ambulance, neither of you faltering in your grip of the other.

It seems like every cell that made up his body is shaking as he holds you, “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes again. This time it’s deeper. He’s apologizing for his behavior, sure, but he’s apologizing for this event.

A cry bubbles in your throat. Everything was gone. Your friends were gone. The last two years of your life burnt to ashes.

And when you lose your footing and you otherwise would’ve fallen to the ground, Spencer keeps you up, his grip holding you together—keeping you close.

[spencersmopbucket]

Polar Opposites | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: When you joined the team, it was very evident to the others that you and Spencer may not get along the best. You were water and he was oil — but when working on a team, the repelling can be dangerous. Themes & Warnings: Ummm violence, hurt/comfort with Reid!, enemies to lovers

You were raised in New York. Alone. No siblings or mother.

Learning independence was quick for you. By the time you were eight, you were walking yourself to school, a keychain with the apartment key and a bottle of pepper spray dangling from it. You were tough, bull-headed, but not completely absent of warmth.

Your father was a good man. A strong one. He was on the NYPD, a conductor of justice, yet a fair one. You idolized him, even when he came home with blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his bones. You learned early that justice wasn't always clean, and rarely kind.

You quickly learned from him.

When you were old enough, he put you into self defense classes. It wasn't much of a surprise to him that you immediately excelled.

He watched proudly as you took down grown men twice your size in the ring, never once hesitating. “You fight like your mother,” he told you once. You didn’t remember her, not really, but something about the way he said it made your chest swell.

You lived by his rules. Protect others. Never back down. Trust your gut, even when it got you in trouble.

By the time you were a teenager, you were patrolling with a police scanner on in the background of your homework, studying both algebra and 10-codes. While other girls wore lip gloss and whispered about boys, you were memorizing the NY penal code and learning how to hold a Glock.

As soon as you could, you joined your father on the force. Not quite where he was. He was pretty far up. But you made him proud, which is all you wanted.

Every commendation, every collar, every time you kept your cool when things went sideways — he’d clap a firm hand on your shoulder and say, “That’s my girl.” And that was enough. It had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The night he didn’t come home changed everything.

You were the one who got the call. Not the captain. Not some rookie liaison. You. Because you were his emergency contact. Because they knew you’d want to hear it straight, from the mouth of someone who cared.

Officer down. Ambush. Three men. Two with priors, one on a vendetta. He died fighting, they said. Died protecting his partner.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t speak for almost twenty-four hours.

Instead, you scrubbed his blood out of his badge chain, boxed up his medals, and sat for hours in his worn recliner with your service pistol in your lap, staring into nothing.

The grief didn’t crush you. It carved you.

By the time you left the NYPD, you weren’t the same person. And maybe that was the point. You needed something new. Somewhere that didn’t hold his shadow in every alley, every precinct, every call sign on the radio.

The BAU wasn’t your first choice. Behavioral analysis wasn’t your strength. You didn’t have three PhDs or a mind built for chess moves and statistics. But they recruited you anyway. Hotch said your field instincts were unmatched, that you had a gut that couldn't be taught.

You were strong. Your suffering had hardened you into a diamond. But you did have a flaw. Sometimes, you rushed into things without strategy, relying on strength and impulse. You were more physically lead than others on the team, opting for the take-down rather than the talk-down.

This was what made you so different from the team's boy genius, Spencer Reid.

He wasn't the softest anymore himself. He was hardened by his abduction by Tobias Hankel, his drug addiction, his prison time, the loss of his first lover. But he didn't let it change him completely. He was still warm, like he'd been before. Still sweet. And he still did his job the same; in the same calculating, analyzing Reid way. He was more logic based than aggression based.

And that’s where you clashed.

Where you were storm and instinct, Spencer was method and measure. He needed answers before action. You needed action before the body count climbed. He quoted psychological journals; you trusted a gut that had never failed you. It was oil and water from the very beginning.

The team noticed it immediately — the sharp way you challenged his statistics, the way his mouth drew tight every time you went off-book, the way both of you refused to yield. Rossi called it "professional tension." Morgan called it "foreplay." Hotch just warned you both not to let it interfere in the field.

Of course, it did anyway.

It had been a difficult case.

A serial killer, targeting women, as was typical. It was a sensitive situation, requiring delicate action and careful steps.

The investigation went fine — smooth actually. It was easy enough to profile and find the man, but the hostage situation needed to be handled much softer.

He was holding a young woman in a cage, down below his house in a bunker. You, Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan were sent to do the confrontation.

The four of you approached the property quietly. The woods surrounding the cabin were thick and silent, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange through the trees. Reid had his tablet out, blueprints of the house and rough sketches of the underground bunker on display. You barely glanced at it.

“We can’t spook him,” Prentiss said, voice low. “If he thinks he’s cornered—”

“He might kill her,” Reid finished grimly. “He’s already escalated twice. He’s unpredictable under pressure.”

That was Spencer’s way — anticipate the worst, measure every variable. Your jaw clenched.

“Then we don’t give him time to react,” you said, cocking your weapon. “He’s not expecting a full team yet. We move fast, controlled. Get in, get her out.”

Spencer’s head shot up. “No. We stick to the protocol. We make contact, distract him, and—”

“There is no protocol for a man holding a girl in a fucking cage, Reid.”

Your voice was sharper than it needed to be, but you didn’t care. The thought of that girl locked up like an animal made your skin crawl. Every second wasted was another scar, another trauma she’d carry forever.

“Exactly. Which is why we don’t risk charging in blind,” he snapped back, stepping in front of you. “You go in there guns blazing and he could slit her throat before you even get your second step down that ladder.”

Morgan’s hand landed on your shoulder, a warning. “Both of you — not the time.”

But you weren’t done.

“Then what? We just talk to him? Offer him therapy? Hope he suddenly sees the light?”

Reid’s eyes blazed. “No. But we don’t rush in and make it worse. You want to save her? Then don’t be the reason she dies.”

It hit harder than you expected. Maybe because deep down, you knew he was right. Maybe because you hated being wrong in front of him.

The plan went Spencer’s way. At first.

You reached them. The man was sweaty, eyes wild. The girl moaned quietly in front of him, wrestling around in the heavy chains she was bound by.

Reid and Prentiss attempted a talk-down.

The unsub paced behind the girl like a panicked animal, holding a long hunting knife inches from her throat. His eyes flicked between Prentiss and Reid, twitchy and erratic, the delusion already thick in the air.

“I didn’t hurt her!” he barked. “I fed her, didn’t I?! She’s mine now — I chose her!”

You could practically feel the tension radiating off Spencer. He stood just a step in front of Prentiss, hands raised, calm as ever — but you knew him well enough to see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers.

“You’re not in trouble,” Spencer said gently, voice even. “You’ve been through a lot. No one wants to hurt you, we just want to help her. Let her go. We can talk, just you and me.”

The unsub twitched. “She loves me,” he muttered, jabbing the blade toward the girl’s collarbone. She whimpered again, and your own hand inched toward your holster.

“Reid,” you said quietly. A warning.

But he held up one hand. Not yet.

“You’re right,” he said to the unsub. “You did choose her. You saw something in her. That’s important. That means you care about her, right?”

The man’s breathing hitched — confused. Hopeful.

Then it happened.

She whimpered again — too loud. Too broken. Something in her tone must have snapped the illusion in his head. Because suddenly he screamed, pulled her tighter, and raised the knife.

You moved before anyone else could.

Gun drawn, aim steady, you crossed the space in two steps and tackled him. Your shoulder collided with his ribs, knocking him clean off the girl. You wrestled the knife from his hand and had him on the ground in seconds, arm wrenched behind his back.

You barely heard the girl sobbing as Prentiss rushed to her side. Barely heard Morgan’s footsteps pounding down the stairs. All you could hear was the pounding of your own pulse.

“God damn it,” Reid muttered from behind you. Not angry. Not even frustrated.

Worried.

The rest was a blur.

Back at the precinct, the girl had been taken to the hospital. The unsub was in custody. Everyone was safe.

But Spencer didn’t say a word to you until you were alone.

The motel hallway was dim and quiet, carpet patterned with decades of wear. You turned when you heard his door click shut behind him.

“You weren’t supposed to go in,” he said. Quiet. Low.

You crossed your arms. “And if I hadn’t, she might be dead.”

“She might be,” he agreed. “Or you might be. We all might've been. You can’t keep putting yourself in the line like that without thinking. You don’t get to be the only one who carries the risk. Not to mention what risk it puts on the other teammates.”

You blinked. Something about the way he said it — like you'd selfishly put everyone in danger.

Your eyes narrowed.

"How come you're always shitting on my busts, Reid? You ever think that one of these times, you might wait too long and get someone killed?"

He swallowed, his face tightening.

"Don't turn this around on me. You continuously stray from protocol like you're above the rest of us. If you just followed directions, I wouldn't have to complain."

You felt the flare of heat in your chest — insult, frustration, maybe even guilt. But underneath all of it, something deeper: hurt.

"Above the rest of you?" you repeated, voice low. Dangerous. "Is that really what you think of me?"

Reid held your stare, but there was a flicker of regret in his eyes now. He hadn’t meant to cut that deep. Or maybe he had. Maybe it had built up between you for so long, he hadn’t realized the blade was that sharp.

“I think you act like you don’t need us,” he said. “Like you don’t trust anyone but yourself. And in this job, that’s not just frustrating, it’s fatal.”

You laughed once, dryly. “Well, maybe I don’t trust anyone else. Maybe I learned a long time ago that trust doesn’t keep you alive.”

That landed. His expression cracked. Because if there was one thing Spencer Reid understood, it was the cost of trusting the wrong people. Or worse, not trusting the right ones until it was too late.

"You need to ease up. Trusting someone besides yourself might keep you alive one day," He hissed, leaning into your face. "You act like a stubborn, impulsive fool."

You scoffed, a snide smirk curling onto your face.

"That's better than constant fear and anxiety. I'd rather be too quick than too slow, Reid," your cold voice biting into him. "You're so busy tucking back into your turtle shell that you don't realize how much time you waste being afraid."

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something fierce igniting behind the calm intellect you knew so well.

“Being cautious doesn’t mean I’m afraid,” he snapped back, voice low but sharp. “It means I’m trying to think. Something you never do until after the damage is done.”

You stepped closer, your breath mingling with his in the tight hallway. “Yeah, well maybe it’s better to act first and think later than to be paralyzed by what-ifs. At least I move.”

You stood face to face, a silent snarl shared between the two of you. Spencer took another breath to snap back, but you were interrupted.

"Guys. Enough. The jet is about to take off." Prentiss said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shrugged her off, slinging your bag over it instead.

"It's cool. I was done being questioned about my successful take-down anyways." You muttered, walking away.

Spencer watched you go, the frustration still simmering beneath his calm exterior. His jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. He wanted to say more; to tell you that beneath his caution was a desperate hope you’d be safe, that he cared more than he knew how to show.

But for now, he let the silence stretch, knowing this was just one battle in a longer war between you. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way to bridge the gap, if only you’d both lower your guards.

The jet ride was tense. You didn't even look at Spencer, opting to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't help but glance at you, the brooding look always on your face no different than usual. He sighed, returning to his book.

Back at the office, you shoved your go-bag back into your locker. The photo of your father glinted at you, stuck to the back of the door. You knew what he would've said.

You traced the edges of the photo with a tired finger, the worn image of your father — a man who’d always been your anchor in chaos — reminding you of the rules he drilled into you:

"Protect others."

"Never back down."

"Trust your gut."

"I'm so proud of you, kid."

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, the weight of those words settling deep inside you. You’d carried his lessons like armor all these years — tough, unyielding, sometimes too sharp to wield without cutting yourself.

You stared at his image for a few more seconds, before turning away.

You jumped. Morgan, standing behind you.

"Jesus." You said, taking a deep breath. "Don't sneak up on me like that, dude."

Morgan chuckled, his usual easy grin softening the tension in the room. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

He glanced at the photo taped inside your locker. “Your old man sounds like a hell of a guy.”

You nodded, voice quieter now. “He was. Still is… in a way.”

Morgan leaned against the lockers, folding his arms. “You know, you don’t always have to carry all that weight alone. Not here. Not with us.”

You met his eyes, the sincerity there catching you off guard. For a moment, the walls you’d built felt a little less necessary.

"... Thank you."

Morgan nodded, leaning against the lockers.

"I heard you and Reid had a little spat in the hotel earlier."

You rolled your eyes, grumbling. Of course, Prentiss would've squealed.

Morgan’s grin widened, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Yeah, I heard. Something about Spencer getting a little too in your space?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “He’s got a knack for pushing buttons. Doesn’t know when to quit.”

Morgan shook his head, chuckling low. “That guy’s all brain and nerves. Sometimes he forgets there’s a person behind all that genius.”

You glanced away, feeling a mix of irritation and something softer beneath it. “I get it, but I’m not exactly easy to handle either.”

He leaned against the locker beside yours, eyes steady. “Look, I get it. You did what you had to do back there. You saved that girl.”

Your jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, I’m saying I see it. You’re a damn good agent. One of the best. But sometimes being the best means knowing when to slow down.”

You scoffed, bitterness creeping into your voice. “Slowing down gets people killed.”

Morgan didn’t flinch. “It’s not about slowing down all the time. It’s about picking your moments. You got guts, no doubt. But guts without control? That’s a problem.”

You finally met his gaze, raw and honest. “So what am I supposed to do, Morgan? Wait around for the bad guy to slit her throat? Let the clock run out?”

He studied you for a beat, then responded slowly. “No. But you gotta trust the team. Not just yourself. We got your six. We all do. Even Reid. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of his words settled in your chest. It was easier said than done. You were used to standing on your own — had been for as long as you could remember.

Morgan clapped a hand on your shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Your dad taught you to protect others, right?”

Your eyes flickered to the photo taped inside your locker, the man who was everything steady in your world.

Morgan smiled softly. “Yeah. And that means sometimes you gotta step back, watch the angles, think a few moves ahead. That’s how you protect the team and yourself.”

The tension between you seemed to ease, just a little. You weren’t used to advice that didn’t come with judgment, but this was different. It was real.

Morgan gave you a wink. “You’re a hell of a cop. Don’t forget, sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You nodded, the edges of your defenses softening just enough for a flicker of respect. “Thanks, Morgan. I’ll try.”

“Try?” He grinned. “No try. You’ll do it.”

You smirked back. “Yeah? You confident in me?”

“Hell yeah. Just gotta let the team catch up sometimes. And don't forget,” he said, nudging your shoulder. "We could all learn some things from you too. Even Reid, when he decides to get his head out of his ass."

You snickered, rolling your eyes and turning back to your locker, shutting it.

“Thanks for the reality check.”

“Anytime,” he said, before turning and walking away, leaving you with something you didn’t realize you needed — a little hope.

The next case came quickly. You almost weren't ready for it.

Your headphones blared into your ears as you trained in the sparring room, sweating as you bounced around a punching bag. Your gloves squeaked with every moment you made, punching into the bag with preciseness and toughness.

Your phone rang.

You yanked a glove off with your teeth and fumbled for your phone, the sweat on your fingers making it harder to swipe. The name on the screen — Hotch — made your stomach tighten. You were still riding the edge of your last conversation with Morgan, and now, here came another case.

“Yeah?” you answered, a little breathless.

Hotch’s voice was calm, clipped. “Briefing room. Twenty minutes.”

You wiped your brow with the back of your forearm. “Copy that.”

He hung up without another word.

You stood there for a beat, the bass of your music still thumping in one ear. The punching bag rocked gently beside you, evidence of your focused aggression. But the tension in your shoulders hadn’t eased. If anything, it pulled tighter.

Another case. Another town. Another family ruined. You loved this job but sometimes, it felt like it never let you breathe.

With a grunt, you unwrapped your gloves, tossing them in your gym bag. As you pulled your hoodie over your damp sports bra and headed for the showers, Morgan’s words echoed back in your head:

“Sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You smirked faintly to yourself, voice muttering under your breath, “Yeah, well... I hope patience works on serial killers too.”

You had no idea what you were walking into, but you knew this much: you'd face it head-on.

Just like always.

You pulled your work clothes on quickly and headed for the bullpen, tossing your hair into a ponytail.

The rest of the team was already there, relieved to see you walk in.

"Sorry. I was training." You said quietly, joining them at the table.

Hotch gave you a nod — his version of “no problem.” Reid glanced up from the file in his hands, his eyes catching yours for a moment before flicking back down. You weren’t sure what that look meant, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Victim number three was found this morning,” Hotch began, passing a photo across the table. “Female, early thirties. Same MO. Ligature marks, posed postmortem, and a red ribbon tied around the wrist.”

You leaned forward, studying the image. “Same as the others. No signs of forced entry?”

JJ shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like they let the killer in willingly.”

You crossed your arms, thoughts already sharpening like blades. “So he’s charming, disarming. Makes them feel safe… until he doesn’t.”

Morgan pointed at the map. “All victims lived alone, all in a five-mile radius. He’s hunting in a comfort zone.”

Spencer cleared his throat, hesitant but determined. “Geographical profiling supports that. He’s probably familiar with the area -- might even live or work nearby.”

You glanced at him again, this time holding the look for a second longer. “Then we start knocking on doors.”

Prentiss gave a wry smile. “I like it when you get fired up.”

You shrugged, grabbing a file. “Better than sitting on our hands.”

Hotch raised a brow. “Let’s keep it focused. Morgan, you and (Y/N) check in with local businesses. Reid, JJ, and Prentiss, canvass the neighborhood. I’ll coordinate with local PD.”

You nodded.

"I know that PD pretty well. My dad and I worked with them for a couple of years. I'll pitch in with the communications."

Hotch gave a curt nod, clearly appreciating the initiative. “Good. Familiarity could speed things up. Just make sure they loop everything back to me.”

You gave him a short, respectful salute. “You got it, boss.”

Morgan shot you a quick grin as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “You sure you’re not trying to take Hotch’s job?”

You smirked. “Please. I’d make a terrible brooding authority figure.”

Hotch didn’t even look up from the map he was marking. “I’m standing right here.”

You and Morgan exchanged a glance, both biting back laughter.

As the team filed out, Reid hesitated at the edge of the room. He glanced at you, like he wanted to say something, but then just gave a slight nod and walked away with JJ and Prentiss.

Your eyes lingered on his back for a second before you turned and fell into step beside Morgan.

“So,” he said as you headed for the SUV, “you and local PD go way back?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My dad and I used to consult on cases when I was younger. He was training me even before I joined the Bureau. Some of those officers were practically family for a while.”

Morgan nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a thoughtful smile. “That explains a lot.”

“What does?”

“You move like someone who’s been doing this their whole life. It’s in your blood.”

You paused at the passenger door, his words landing heavier than he probably intended.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”

Morgan didn’t push. He just clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Then let’s go show ‘em how it’s done.”

You gave him a small smile. “Hell yeah.”

You slid into the seat, heart steadier than it had been in days. Maybe the next few hours would be hell. Maybe this case would crack something raw in you. But with Morgan’s support at your side and your father’s instincts still pulsing through your veins, you weren’t going in blind.

You were ready to hunt.

No sooner had you and Morgan hit the pavement than the scent of tension in the air thickened, like something dark had just passed through and left its mark. The PD station felt different now than it did when you were younger. Familiar faces looked more worn, more guarded.

“Agent (L/N),” one of the lieutenants greeted you with a surprised smile. “Heard you were coming in. Damn, you look more and more like your old man every time I see you.”

You gave him a short nod, your voice quiet. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

Morgan stood back slightly, letting you take the lead. He watched as you moved through the room with purpose; calm, steady, authoritative in your own way. You weren’t trying to be your father, but his legacy lingered around you like armor.

“We’ve already pulled security cam footage from nearby businesses,” the lieutenant explained. “We can have it queued up for you in five.”

“Perfect. Let’s get started.”

Morgan leaned over to you as they set things up in the back room. “You’ve got them listening to you like you’re already in charge.”

You gave a tired shrug. “My dad never tolerated anyone doing half a job. I guess that stuck.”

He studied your face for a moment — sharp, focused, a little worn around the eyes. Then he said, “You know, you don’t always have to be the one holding it all together.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“You said that already,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “You didn’t listen the first time.”

You laughed under your breath, but your eyes softened. “I’m listening now.”

Before either of you could say more, an officer called you over. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

The footage was grainy but clear enough: a figure pacing outside a bakery at midnight. Twitchy. Darting glances. Then dragging something — someone — down an alley.

Morgan muttered under his breath. “Looks like our guy.”

Your expression shifted instantly. Calm became alert. You pointed to the timestamp. “That’s two hours before the last body was found. He was still escalating.”

The lieutenant nodded grimly. “He’s getting bolder.”

Morgan stepped beside you, already scanning the angle, escape routes, signage. “What do you want to do?”

You took a breath, already forming a plan.

“We start there,” you said, pointing to the alley. “We follow the trail. And this time, we end it before he escalates again.”

Morgan gave a sharp nod. “Now that’s the kind of leadership I can get behind.”

You smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned back. “Too late.”

You quickly phoned the rest of the team, getting them in on it. It was decided.

You'd be bait — the youngest on the team. The prettiest, Prentiss had claimed. But it would take something you weren't exactly versed in.

Patience. Calculation. Thought before decision.

You, of course, had too look like less than an agent. That night, you had to get prepared, dressing down from your usual slacks and dress shirt and opting for a more.. casual.. look.

Garcia, JJ, and Prentiss just couldn't wait to get their hands on you. It was a once in a life time opportunity.

You barely made it into the hotel room before the ambush.

“There she is!” Prentiss announced, arms crossed with a smug grin. JJ was already holding up two hangers, each with an outfit. Garcia was seated cross-legged on the bed with a massive makeup bag splayed open in front of her like a battlefield.

You blinked. “Did you guys.. Were you waiting for me?”

JJ smirked. “Garcia brought supplies.”

Garcia didn’t even look up. “Sweet cheeks, I have been dreaming of this day since you joined the team. And now… finally…” She lifted a compact like a weapon forged in heaven. “The day has come.”

“This isn’t a makeover montage,” you muttered.

“Oh, but it is,” Prentiss said, grabbing your wrist and tugging you into the middle of the room. “You’re going undercover as vulnerable, off-duty eye candy. We’re making sure you sell it.”

“Guys,” you sighed. “This isn’t Clueless. I’m bait for a serial killer, not a Tinder date.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, tossing a pair of stockings onto the bed. “So you need to look like someone who doesn’t know she’s being watched. Not like someone who could break someone’s nose with two fingers.”

The scene was a bar. Wasting some time inside of it, sipping on a few prop drinks all alone, before stumbling out into the alley where he'd most likely take his chances on you.

You had to look the part. The mysterious, lonely temptress who would go quietly if grabbed.

You were forced into a short, red dress, one that hugged your curves and showed off the length of your smooth legs. Your hair was curled, natural makeup on your already pretty face.

You were gorgeous. Not that you weren't usually. But this was much different than your slick-back ponytail and business only outfit, a gun hanging from your holster.

Garcia let out a dramatic gasp when you stepped out of the bathroom.

“Oh. My. God.” she breathed, eyes widening. “You’re not just bait, you're irresistible temptation. Marry me.”

Prentiss gave a low whistle. “Remind me to never stand next to you in public again.”

JJ smirked. “He won’t stand a chance. Poor bastard.”

You tugged at the hem of the red dress, fidgeting. It was shorter than anything you usually wore. Hell, it was shorter than anything Garcia usually wore. “I feel like a walking target.”

“That’s the point,” Prentiss said, coming up behind you to fix a loose curl. “But don’t forget. You’re still the most dangerous one in the room.”

Garcia handed you a tiny clutch with your wire and phone inside. “And just in case he gets any ideas before the alley, Reid and Morgan will be watching from the bar. Hotch and I are set up in the surveillance van. You’re never alone.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror again. It was surreal, like staring at a version of yourself that only existed in smoke and mirrors. A version soft enough to lure in a killer. A version smart enough to trap him.

You took a breath. Deep. Steady.

“I can do this,” you muttered.

“You will do this,” JJ corrected firmly, her voice resolute. “And when you bring this guy down, I want my red dress back.”

You laughed softly, the nerves settling into something colder, more useful. “You got it.”

As the three women saw you off, Prentiss stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Hey. You’re more than bait. You’re the one drawing him out. That makes you the one in control.”

You stepped outside, meeting Morgan and Reid at the undercover vehicle, a sleek black SUV. They stood talking by the passenger's door, only noticing you approaching when you got close.

Morgan was the first to look up; and his reaction was immediate.

His brows rose, a low whistle slipping out as he took in your appearance. “Damn. Remind me what we’re trying to catch again? Because I think you just stunned me.”

Reid, less composed, blinked rapidly. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Y-You, uh, wow. You look…” His brain clearly short-circuited.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Careful, boys. I’m armed.”

Morgan laughed, clapping Reid on the back as if to snap him out of his stupor. “You good, pretty boy? Need a second to reboot?”

Reid cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets and very intentionally looking at the SUV instead of you. “I’m fine. Let's move out.”

Without another word, Reid hopped into the car, leaving you and Derek in silence. You rolled your eyes as Derek opened the door to let you get in.

Morgan held the door open with a crooked grin. “You know, I’ve seen you break a man’s nose with the butt of your Glock… but somehow, this might be the most dangerous I’ve ever seen you.”

You scoffed, climbing into the SUV. “Save it for Garcia.”

In a few short minutes, you were at your destination. You got out, securing the wire into a hidden place as Reid and Morgan looked around. You tossed your curls behind your shoulder and cleared your throat.

"Alright. In the bar for fifteen minutes, twenty at most. If he approaches you, play coy. If he doesn't, we still have a chance to lure him in the back alley," Morgan explained, securing his own wire and tucking his gun. "We're more likely to see him out there. He's struck in that area quite a few times."

You nodded.

"Don't be afraid. We'll be right there with you, just at a distance. If you're ever too uncomfortable to stand it, call for us."

You made a gesture of agreement to Morgan before finally glancing at Reid, who cleared his throat.

"Just.. Don't jump the gun." He said. He somewhat failed to keep the entitlement in his voice. You wondered what was plaguing him, but nonetheless, you ignored it, rolling your eyes.

"I got it, Reid. Don't worry. Your teachings will be on my psyche the whole time."

Reid’s jaw ticked slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response but unwilling to push further — at least not in front of Morgan.

Morgan, on the other hand, was watching the two of you like he was sitting court-side. “Alright, kids,” he said, breaking the tension with a raised brow. “Let’s not make this a pissing contest. We’ve got a predator to catch, not egos to babysit.”

You smirked, giving Morgan a thumbs up as you reached for the bar door. But before you could step out, Reid finally spoke again, softer this time, less sharp.

“Just… be careful. Please.”

You paused, turning slightly to look at him. There it was. Underneath all the attitude and irritation — the worry. The fear. The unspoken something that had been simmering between you both since that stupid hotel argument.

You gave a nod. “I will.”

And then you stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement, shoulders square, mask slipping into place.

You weren’t the agent now. You were the bait.

For a while, it was dead.

You sat at the bar, sipping on a "vodka soda," looking around. You tried your best to keep your emotions off from your face, opting for a more bored look. Your legs were crossed. People filtered in, people filtered out. The music changed. Drinks were poured, people surrounded you. A few approached, but not the one you needed.

You checked the time subtly, tilting your wrist just enough to catch the glint of the watch Garcia had modified for comms. Seventeen minutes. A little longer than planned, but not enough to call it yet. You could feel their eyes on you, Morgan’s and Reid’s from their respective vantage points, watching every shift of your posture like hawks.

The bartop was sticky, the lighting dim, casting sultry shadows that you knew looked calculated from afar. You took another slow sip, letting your eyes drift across the room again. A man at the end of the bar caught your gaze, held it for a beat too long.

But he turned away. Not him.

Your fingers tapped lightly against your glass, nails clicking in a slow rhythm.

Patience. Not just power.

You breathed out through your nose, subtle and quiet. You could play this game.

Just when your boredom began to feel a little too real, movement in your periphery made your eyes flick. A man near the jukebox — tall, late 30s, scruffy beard, not quite drunk but deliberately slow in his movements. Alone. Observing. Not playing music.

He looked at you.

You tilted your head slightly, uncrossing and recrossing your legs. Deliberate. Casual. Vulnerable.

He didn’t move.

But now you knew.

That was him.

And he was watching.

You cleared your throat, turning away and looking disinterested, until you felt his presence get closer and closer. Then, he was right beside you.

"Out here all alone?"

You didn’t look at him right away. You let the question hang for a beat, took a slow sip of your drink, kept your eyes ahead like someone unsure whether to entertain the voice or pretend they hadn’t heard it.

Then you turned, just a little. Just enough for your lashes to lift slowly, eyes finding his. Soft. Unassuming.

You gave a half-smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

He chuckled lowly, like he’d practiced it. Like he wanted it to sound charming but didn’t quite have the tone right. “Just someone who hates to see a pretty girl looking so bored.”

You glanced around the room lazily, then back at him. “Well. Not exactly a thrilling place to be alone.”

His eyes scanned you too thoroughly. It made your skin crawl, but you didn’t flinch.

He leaned on the bar beside you. “Maybe I could change that.”

You shifted, letting your knee graze his thigh — accidentally, on purpose. “Maybe you could.”

From the comms in your ear, you could barely catch Morgan’s low voice: “He’s on her. Stay ready.”

You gave the stranger one last smile before looking down into your glass. “Buy me a refill?”

He motioned to the bartender. “Vodka soda, right?”

You nodded. “Good memory.”

He grinned, and that time it reached his eyes. Just a flash. Something darker.

Bingo.

Your heart kicked up. But your face never betrayed it. You leaned in, just slightly, pretending to laugh at something he hadn’t said.

You held a conversation easily, as if you'd been doing this forever. You barely nursed your drink, immersing yourself into fooling him more than anything else. You crossed your fingers.

And soon, it came. The question you needed.

"You wanna get out of here?" He asked gruffly, a hand coming up to stroke your exposed collar bone. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to snap his arm, slam him to the floor and cuff him immediately.

But you thought about what Spencer had said.

Contemplation. Patience. The art of being cautious. It was just as useful as the fire you usually lit onto anyone you apprehended.

You took a slow breath through your nose, keeping your smile soft, a little shy. You let your eyes flick down, like you were considering it. Like you hadn’t just felt bile rise in your throat at the weight of his hand.

This was the moment. The danger curled just beneath your skin, thrumming like a second pulse.

“Yeah,” you said, voice a little breathier, like nerves. “I could use some air.”

He smiled — victory, hunger, maybe both — and slid off his stool, his hand brushing down your arm as if he had the right.

Morgan’s voice was calm but firm in your earpiece. “She’s moving. Everyone hold position. Reid, keep visual.”

You followed him toward the door, a little slower than necessary, stumbling just enough to play into it. “Sorry,” you muttered with a nervous laugh. “Maybe I had one too many.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding the door open. “I’ll take care of you.”

The night hit you like a slap of reality — cold, quiet, real. Your heels clicked against pavement as he guided you down the sidewalk, toward the alley behind the bar.

Your breath hitched. Not from fear. From instinct. The part of you that was still an agent. Still ready to fight, to break him, to stop this before he could touch another woman.

But you stayed in character. You stayed the part.

“Reid,” Morgan’s voice came again. “Do you have eyes?”

There was a long beat before Spencer replied, voice low, strained. “Yes. He’s guiding her down the alley. Don’t move yet.”

You felt it in his voice. You'd felt it since your argument. The tension. The fear. The anticipation. There was something different about the way Reid talked to you, talked about you, ever since your moment in the hotel.

You turned to the man, letting yourself wobble just enough, brushing against him like you needed balance. His hand found your waist too easily.

“You okay?” he asked.

You gave him a soft laugh. “Yeah. Just… a little dizzy.”

“Don’t worry.” His grip tightened. “I’ve got you.”

And then, just like that, he started to lead you into the dark.

Any second now.

Then, moments later, his grip on you became stronger. More direct. Less friendly.

"What are you—"

Without another word, you were slammed up against the brick, his dirty hands all over you. Frantically searching for something. Pain echoed through your body as he continued ruffling your clothes, pulling at your hair.

You frowned, struggling.

"Please, don't—"

"Shut up, bitch! I know you're a cop." He snapped, jerking you slightly.

Your jaw dropped. You felt as though you had cold water thrown over you, dripping down your spine into your heels.

"But I'm not." You attempted meekly.

Cautious. Don't fight yet. Contemplate your choices.

He snickered snidely.

"Officer L/n. I know your father, sweetheart. Or knew him," He said, his clammy breath fanning into your face. "He got my friends put away for life. And then there you were, following right in his footsteps."

He dragged you away from the brick wall, grabbing you by your face. A knife glinted in his other hand.

The cold edge of the blade caught the faint glow of the alley light, flickering like a warning. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands were still raised — not in surrender, but in precision. Timing.

"Where's the fuckin' wire? Tell me or I'm slitting your throat and dropping you right here."

You swallowed hard, keeping your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “I don’t have a wire on me.”

His eyes flashed with suspicion, narrowing dangerously. “Bullshit.”

"Please.." You muttered.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

"Where. Is. The. Wire?!" He snapped, pressing the knife into you.

You froze for a heartbeat as the knife pressed sharper against your skin, a searing line of cold fire that threatened to break through your calm. Your breath hitched but you forced it back down, steady and slow, every nerve screaming for you to act.

“Wait,” you whispered, eyes locking with his — steady, unflinching. “You want the wire? I'll give it to you. I'm begging you not to do this.”

His grip tightened, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, just a flash. Then, the knife pressed harder, enough to nick you, enough to cause a drop of blood to drizzle down. You hissed, tears collecting in your eyes.

Before the knife could press deeper, Reid sprang forward in a sudden burst of strength and precision — the kind of controlled force you usually wielded yourself.

He grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching the knife away in one smooth motion. The blade clattered to the ground.

Without hesitation, Reid twisted the man’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first against the brick wall with a sharp grunt.

The attacker struggled, but Reid’s grip was ironclad. He never did take-downs. He never felt like it was time. He valued a talk-down, a chance for the Unsub to see the light without an altercation. But something had snapped.

Reid’s breathing was heavier, eyes sharp and fierce — something you’d never seen in him before. The usual hesitation and quiet intellect gave way to raw, unyielding force. It was like watching a different side of him come alive, the side you’d been expecting all along but had never truly witnessed until now. The others had claimed to see it since he'd come home from prison, but it had never been revealed to you.

He hissed quietly, “Don’t move.”

You slumped against the wall, breathing heavily with a hand clutched to your neck. Blood flowed steadily, but not at a dangerous rate. Just enough to need a med team, but not enough to be scared. You stared up at the sky, frowning.

Morgan and Hotch came after, taking the Unsub from Reid, who was pressing him harder and harder against the wall every second as if he'd personally offended him with his existence.

Hotch immediately stepped in, his voice calm but authoritative. “Easy, Reid. Let him breathe.”

Morgan was already pulling out a medical kit, kneeling beside you quickly. “You good? That cut’s nasty, we can’t patch it up on-site.”

You gave a stiff nod, biting back the sting. “I’m fine. Just… keep him away.”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but he finally loosened his grip, stepping back reluctantly as the cuffs clicked shut around the Unsub’s wrists.

Your eyes met his, a quiet understanding passing between you both— raw tension still lingering, but also something deeper. You’d both taken a page from each other’s book tonight: your strength and resolve, his patience and calculated caution.

Morgan glanced at the three of you, breaking the moment with a grin. “Alright, bait and backup — that’s how we bring down monsters."

You rolled your eyes as you pressed the gauze to the side of your neck. "All in a day's work."

Morgan hummed.

"You need a hospital. I can drive—"

"I can do it." Reid interrupted quietly, looking at you more than he was Morgan.

You cleared your throat, nodding.

Reid’s eyes softened just a fraction as he reached out, carefully taking your hand to steady you. “Let’s get you patched up properly.”

Morgan gave you both a teasing smirk, but wisely kept his distance as Reid helped you into the SUV.

The ride was silent. The quick treatment in the hospital was silent, too. You allowed them to clean and stitch you up, flinching every few moments, before your eyes met Reid's again.

There was something different. There was no irritation or arrogance in his brown eyes like what he normally directed towards you. It was only softness. Just simply watching you, like it was a normal habit of his that he could do all day. Thick with tension. Words unsaid.

You couldn't lie. It made you blush. You looked away.

The conversation didn't ensue until the ride back to the hotel.

The engine hummed low as the SUV slipped down the dark road, headlights casting long, sweeping shadows across the pavement. Reid drove slower than usual: cautious, thoughtful. His fingers gripped the wheel with a quiet intensity, knuckles pale.

You sat beside him, your body angled slightly toward the window, but your eyes drifted, again and again, to his face. To the way his jaw tensed and relaxed like he was chewing on words. Like he couldn’t hold them in much longer.

He broke the silence.

"You did perfectly." He said quietly.

Your eyes flicked to him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“Didn’t feel perfect,” you muttered, fingers brushing the gauze at your neck. “I let him get too close.”

“That was the point,” Reid said, glancing at you before returning his gaze to the road. “You had him completely. You waited. You didn’t react too soon. That’s what saved your life.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “I thought I’d be the one snapping his wrist and pressing his face into the wall. Guess we traded roles.”

Reid’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something more fragile. “You’ve always been better at brute force. I just never thought I’d actually need to use it.”

You leaned back in your seat, watching him. “So what changed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept driving, eyes steady, lips parted slightly like the words were there, just hesitant to form.

Finally, he spoke, voice barely audible. “The second I saw him touch you, I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the risk or the outcomes. I just… moved.”

Your throat tightened. “Why?”

He inhaled slowly. “Because if something had happened to you, if I had waited even a second longer, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself. It's hard enough to accept that you were hurt at all.”

You looked down at your lap, quiet for a beat. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

Reid frowned, squeezing the wheel.

"Name.. I don't dislike you." He said hoarsely. "I admire you, to be truthful. You're brave. Strong. Everything I want to be and have struggled to be my whole life," his voice was just above a whisper as he stole a glance your way.

"But I worry. All the time. I worry that something will go wrong and I'll lose another person. Another member of the team. And someone that I.." He trailed off.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“Someone that you…?” you echoed gently, coaxing the rest out of him.

Reid’s jaw clenched. He exhaled shakily through his nose, like the truth physically hurt to say aloud.

“Someone that I like. Someone I care about,” he said at last, voice quiet but unwavering. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. You make me insane, half the time. You drive me completely up the wall.”

You smiled faintly, despite the tension thick in the car.

“But then I watch you work. Or I hear you laugh. Or you look at me like I’m not broken, like I’m not damaged goods. And I—I can’t unfeel it.”

Silence blanketed the car once more, but this time it was full of unsaid things that didn’t need words. It buzzed with the gravity of what had finally cracked open between you.

He pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, putting the car in park. His eyes slid over to yours again.

You reached out slowly, resting your fingers gently over his. He looked down at your hand, then up into your eyes, as if trying to make sure this was real.

You gave a soft, knowing smile. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

Reid huffed a breath, almost a laugh, though his eyes were still glassy with everything he hadn’t said before tonight. “I thought you hated me.”

“I thought you were too good for me.”

His gaze flicked to your neck, then back to your eyes. “No one’s too good for you.”

"You are." You snorted. "I'm mean. Closed off. I don't listen."

Reid shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re protective,” he corrected gently. “You carry the weight for everyone else so they don’t have to. And you listen more than you think — not always to words, but to people. To their actions, their patterns. That’s why you’re good at this.”

You looked away, swallowing hard, your throat tight. “Still. You’re… kind. And soft. And patient. You make people feel safe just by being in the room. I make people flinch.”

Reid’s hand turned beneath yours, his fingers slipping between yours with quiet certainty. “I don't flinch.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in his voice. There was no teasing, no hesitation, no irritation in his tone — just truth. Solid and unwavering.

You stared at him for a beat, breath shallow. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t.”

Reid tilted his head slightly, his gaze dipping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. “I see you. All of you. And I don’t flinch.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest like an anchor: grounding, calming, terrifying in the best way. No one had ever looked at you like this. Not with fear. Not with judgment. But with… something gentler. Something that threatened to undo every wall you’d ever built.

“You’re not scared of me,” you said quietly, like you were still trying to convince yourself.

“I’m scared for you, every time you throw yourself into harms' way,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “But never of you.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Electric.

And then, in the dark hush of the SUV, with the sounds of the city and the glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, you leaned in.

"Reid?"

"Call me Spencer."

You snorted softly, rolling your eyes.

"Spencer?"

His name lingered on your tongue, warm and unfamiliar in that intimate kind of way, like a secret finally spoken aloud.

He gave the faintest nod, eyes flicking down to your lips again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough around the edges, like he already knew what you were going to say but needed to hear it anyway.

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head, your smile barely there. “The staring. The tension. The way you act like I’m a walking risk assessment.”

Spencer’s lips tugged up, sheepish but unrepentant. “I didn’t want to cross a line.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice softened, fingers still tangled with his. “You didn’t cross anything.”

He leaned in a little closer, enough for his breath to ghost across your cheek.

“Then can I?” he whispered.

Your heart thudded once, hard, before you nodded.

“Yes. Please.”

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’d waited a lifetime for permission.

And you, well, for once, you didn’t think. You didn’t fight.

You just let yourself feel.

You knew your father would've liked him.

[auroralwriting]

wait for your love

spencer reid x fem!liaison!reader

after joining the bau eight months ago, you and spencer quickly became close. too close, to be just friends, that is.

word count: 2k

warnings: comfort and fluff, no use of y/n, mutual pining, (un)reciprocated feelings, spencer's love-blind, he only likes your touch, vague hints at spencer's autism, playful flirting

Spencer Reid was all you'd ever wanted. He was a sweet, smart, charming, a gentleman. He understood your thoughts and feelings. He made time for you, and actually, the two of you spent a great deal of time together on a daily basis. It was rare you'd go more than two days without seeing the resident genius.

You were even the rare exception to his physical touch boundaries-- he couldn't keep his hands off of you. Holding your hand or interlocking your pinkies was a common form of touch you shared. Hugs, cuddling, and sharing beds wasn't uncommon, either. Usually on cases, you roomed together, even if you had separate rooms. You were Spencer Reid's solace, even more so-- simply his person.

The only issue? He was just your best friend.

For as close as the two of you were, no, you weren't dating. No, you had no clue how he felt about you. Sometimes it felt like he reciprocated your feelings, but then he'd go and call you something like his best friend. So, maybe he didn't reciprocate the feelings. But that was fine, you were still in his life and he was in yours. That was all that mattered, right?

You barreled into Spencer's hotel room the moment he opened the door from your rapid knocks.

Spencer watched as you flopped face-first on his bed with a chuckle, "Hello to you, too." He walked over to where you laid, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Can you guys please profile this douche any quicker?" You groaned into his pillow, the whine of your voice making Spencer smile. "I'm seriously done with the press on this one. I cannot take another call from stupid Heather Young."

"Who's Heather Young?" Spencer asked as you flipped yourself over quickly, sitting up to face him.

Begrudgingly, you pointed to the small TV that sat in front of his bed. "She's some nosey, obsessive, and pestering news reporter who wants the full coverage story on this case." You sighed. Heather Young truly was testing every limit you had. Her phone calls boarded on stalker, at least one an hour, if not more. You'd tried to block her number, but she found another phone to use. "She won't leave me alone. I swear, Spence, every hour this woman calls!"

Spencer knew all too well the struggles of being a liaison, and this was one of them. Dealing with obnoxious reporters and pestering questions would frustrate him to no end. That's why he admired you so much, for your tolerance and patience.

Your phone rang, and you groaned, turning back over and letting yourself fall face-first back into Spencer’s pillow. He chuckled, grabbing your phone and shutting it off so you wouldn’t receive any more calls for the night. “See? Problem solved,”

“Until six a.m when she calls me trying to get an inside scoop,” your muffled voice whined.

“You’re so grumpy,” Spencer chuckled, leaning on his arm beside you. “Come on, don’t let some stupid news reporter get you like this.”

Maybe if you'd looked closer, harder, you would've noticed the adoration in the genius's eyes. However, you just rolled your eyes and scoffed at his words. "M not grumpy,"

Spencer chuckled, poking your side teasingly. "You definitely are," He chuckled at the way you squeaked, shooting upward at the ticklish sensation.

"Spence!"

"If I were to look up the definition for grumpy, your name would be its definition." Spencer continued to softly poke at your ribs and sides, causing giggles to spew from your lips like an endless waterfall. It was music to Spencer's ears.

"Spencer!" You tried to whine, but it came out as laughter instead.

After a minute or so of his relentless attack, Spencer eased. "See? Not so grumpy anymore. I just know the grumpy cure."

"Tickling me is not a cure," You argued, crossing your arms as you sat criss-crossed in front of him. When Spencer went to reach forward, you sucked in a breath, "Okay, okay! Consider me cured!"

Spencer just chuckled at your words. "Admit it, you were grumpy. I could tell based on the way you threw yourself onto my bed." Spencer joked. He wasn't wrong. His hand, instead of poking, found its way to your side, but it gently caressed you in a sweet motion.

With another roll of your eyes, you smiled, letting Spencer know wordlessly he was right. His touch was soft and comforting. Spencer's touch, no matter how it's given, was the cure.

The moment was broken when your phone buzzed, a text from JJ lighting up your screen. For a moment, ignoring it was a highly considerable option, until you realized you were still on a case, and it could be important.

"Who's that?" Spencer asked, looking over your shoulder as you grabbed your phone from his bedside table.

"JJ," You simply stated.

Where are you? The text read.

With Spence, need anything?

Why can't you ever stay in your own rooms, SMH!! Wanted to see if you're ready to give the profile tomorrow?

You chuckled at her text, As ready as I'll ever be

KK, I won't bother you two lovebirds anymore! Enjoy Spencer time!!!

Spencer grinned at the texts. "You don't think she's going to read into that, do you?"

"She already does," You shrugged, setting your phone back down. "The whole team always asks, 'When are you and Spencer getting together?,' 'When are you finally gonna date?,' blah, blah, blah."

With an eyebrow now raised, Spencer felt himself become surprised at your response. While he speculated there was some sort of, well, suspicion about the two of you, he was never on the receiving end of any of it. Apparently, that's because you were. "How many people have asked about us? Just the team?"

"Just them," You paused, considering his question. "Wait, you don't know about this?"

Spencer became more confused at your tone, "No, I don't."

"They think we're madly in love or something," you chuckled, trying to hide your true feelings, "talking about our future little genius-liaison babies."

The genius's mind became scattered, flooded with images of the two of you that his mind created in a moments notice. Children, marriage, love. It felt so surreal picturing you, yet so right. "Did you ever deny it?"

"For the first few months," You confirmed with a solid nod. "I just don't really entertain it anymore. I don't see them stopping anytime soon."

Spencer nodded, clearing his throat. "You haven't let them think it's true though, right?"

"Why?" You asked, his words confusing you. "Is there some sort of problem being with me?"

You felt defensive at his words. Maybe this was his way of telling you the feelings aren't reciprocated. Maybe, all along, you were playing the fool. This stupid, silly little mistake of a crush was mere moments from destroying your closest friendship. You wished you could swallow this whole conversation down like bad medicine and pretend it never happened.

Spencer paused for a moment, your question making his heart drop. "Why would you ask me that?" He softly asked.

"Just--" You sighed, turning over to lay on your side that faced away from him. As much as this sucked, you couldn't see yourself leaving him, either. "forget about it, Spence."

You were upset now, that much was apparent. Spencer couldn't tell if it was about the team, or his response. He wasn't good at talking to girls, let alone about romance. Spencer softly laid on his side, wrapping his arm around your middle and trying to gently pull you into him.

"Spence, it's really fine, just--" You knew this play. You knew he was going to give you the softest affection to try and get you to open up.

"It's not fine, you're upset." Spencer observed, a gentle firmness behind his voice. He hated it when you closed in on yourself.

Adamant about not moving, Spencer realized his efforts were useless; you weren't going to budge. So, he scooted closer until front was pressed against your back, practically spooning you. When your body went rigid against his, Spencer felt disappointment seep into his heart. You always melted into him. Ever so softly, Spencer let his free hand come up and begin to massage your scalp, slowly playing with your hair ever so often.

Like memory, your body began to relax into his, just the way he wanted it to. Of course, it was against your better judgement, but soft moments with Spencer Reid was what you lived for.

Spencer smiled against your shoulder, his efforts weren't so fruitless after all. "You're so stubborn," Spencer mumbled into your shoulder.

"M not stubborn," you muttered in reply, heat rising to your cheeks at his words.

"Yes, you are." Spencer said, giving you a small squeeze. It made you giggle in reply, making Spencer's heart thump loudly in his chest. Could you hear it, too? "You never answered me before,"

You hummed, "Hmm?"

Spencer said your name slowly, a growl of a warning. He needed to fix whatever happened. There was no way he was going to let you stay upset at him.

"I asked you that because.." you hesitated. "I don't know. would there be a problem being with me?"

At your soft words, Spencer realized what had happened. He'd been a fool and insulted you. How could he ever do such a thing? "Of course there wouldn't be a problem being with you," he breathed softly into your ear.

"Then.." you paused, "then why aren't we, I don't know, together?" You rolled over to face him. "I mean, we do this," Your hands waved in the air, motioning to your current position with the genius. "We're always together. We even sleep over! Even the team asks me why we aren't together and--"

Spencer felt shock flood his system at your confession. Did this mean what he thought it meant? Was he reading this right?

"Just, why? Is it me?"

Taking a deep breath, Spencer choked down his fears. "I've been.. scared."

"Scared?" Your desperation morphed into one of curiosity and confusion at his words.

"Scared," Spencer confirmed softly. "I didn't know how you felt. I didn't know if you even wanted this.. us,"

Humor slowly filled the situation. Maybe you'd both been fools, but not in the way you'd originally thought. "Do you really think I cuddle with all my best friends?"

Spencer raised a brow at your words. Yeah, he felt unbelievably stupid. How could he not have seen it before? "No, I suppose not." He meekly replied, a small smile growing on his lips. "Does that mean you-you really want to be my girlfriend?"

A chuckle escaped your lips, "Spencer Reid, you ought to know better than to assume. Don't you know what that makes you?"

He smiled in return, rephrasing his question. "You want to be my girlfriend."

"I do," you smiled.

"I want to be your boyfriend," Spencer replied with a now wide grin on his face.

You felt your heart skip a beat, "I want that, too."

"Do you want to be my girlfriend?" Spencer asked, the question feeling like one of a middle-school boy. Nothing else felt right to say, though. Nothing felt as sweet and innocent as this moment did.

A finger patted your chin as you faked deep thought. "I don't know, it's a lot to consider."

Spencer let out a small laugh, propping himself up. He moved over top of you, his weight now on his forearms as you stared up at him. "Oh, really now?"

"Yeah, being tied down is a lot, you know?"

He leaned down closer to you, so close you could feel the tip of his nose grazing your own. "Tied down," he chuckled with amusement.

"That begs your question; should I be your girlfriend?"

"I say yes," Spencer said, his lips mere centimeters from your own.

Staring down at his lips, you whisper, "I say yes, too."

Like a moment of explosion, your lips meshed perfectly with Spencer's. It felt like everything you'd dreamt of thus far. Poor Spencer, he was in absolute bliss. He felt like he'd been waiting this day his whole life and another. It was magic, heaven, and unbridled passion.

"Stay here tonight?" Spencer whispered as he pulled back, lips tingling with the feeling of you.

"Always," you smiled, pulling him in for another kiss.

[gghostwriter]

A Series of Happenstance

Spencer Reid x House!Daughter!Reader

Summary: The three times Spencer loathed to see you and the one time he pleaded to Trope:Angst; think post Tobias Spencer Reid w.c: 5.2k Disclaimer: I am no way a medical personnel, least of all a psychiatrist so there will be medical inaccuracies A/N: this is part one of my house!daughter series and it’s angst, babes. Spencer is just mean and lashing out here which is totally understandable. It also took a while since writing such heavy pieces of fiction takes a toll on me but I hope, especially to the ones who were excited for this series, love it still. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The first meeting

Spencer didn’t want to be here—here being in this cream colored, four cornered room, facing off the ultimate nemesis of profiler. Not an unsolvable case, not an unsub, but rather a psychiatrist contracted by the FBI for psych evaluation. 

He was fine, he insisted to Hotch. He can compartmentalize well, he rationalized to Gideon. He just needed rest and the comfort of his own bed, he stated to the whole team. But protocols were protocols and his unit chief was a stickler to rules especially when it involved the care for his team. 

That was how he found himself on a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in silence and watching the ticking of the clock as if it was the most interesting piece of art there was. 

The tension was stifling. Spencer could almost see it tainting his vision red. Biting the insides of his cheek, he wanted to keep everything in. 

No, he needed to. 

He knew he was being rude, petulant even but for once, he didn’t have it in him to care. He didn’t know you. You were a complete stranger being paid by the government to report back any findings that could keep him out of the field. It wasn’t fair. You were just accepting the call of duty but you bore the brunt of his ire and hostile gaze. 

In the normal setting, he would have found you intriguing. Your office colored in taupe—cold, distant, and linked to the desire to escape from the world but in the farthest side of the room was a shelf littered with books and small knick knacks that seemed to be collected over the years rather than curated to match the professional setting. The books ranged from published psychology dissertations, medical teaching materials, and collections of essays from well-revered and obscure writers. 

You were dressed in black and white, standard for your importance, but your nails were painted in a pale pink color—close to looking natural but not quite. And lastly, your looks. 

You were beautiful, don’t get him wrong, he may not have the same experiences as Morgan did with the opposite sex but he knows a beautiful attractive woman when he sees one. No, it wasn’t that, it was how young you looked—almost or maybe even sharing the same age as him. 

A genius, then.

A prodigy in your own field just like him. 

“Doctor Reid,” the low timber of your voice bringing him out of his musings. It sent a shiver down his spine when he first heard you speak. A reaction that he catalogued in his mind as a mystery to be revisited later on. 

He subtly tilted his head to the side, an indication that you had his attention albeit reluctantly.

“Anything you say in this room is strictly confidential,” you gestured with your hand. “No file or notes will be passed to your unit chief or any personnels of the brass. I promise you.”

He scoffed, breaking his vow of silence. “That’s not a hundred percent true, Doctor. Lying to get your patient to talk can only get you so far.”

“I understand where you’re coming from but all I submit to the FBI is my conclusion if you’re fit to go back to work or not, patient-confidentiality still stands—” your delicate fingers feebly holding your pen. “Now, I sensed a little resentment. Is it coming from your self-loathing about having to choose a victim for Tobias Hankel or is it your displaced anger from separating with your team liaison, Agent Jareau?” 

He glared at you. How dare you imply the seething anger from within him is directed at anyone but himself. “What? No, no, no. I’m not angry at anything or anyone! Maybe at you and this whole evaluation but never at JJ or—” he cut himself off.

“The suspect,” you continued on for him, jotting down notes on your black leather journal.

“The unsub. Unknown subject.” He corrected, second nature of him to do so. “We call them the unsub.”

You nodded, a lock of hair falling away from your bun. A distracting motion that momentarily rendered him speechless. “Alright. Are you angry at yourself and your decision to separate with Agent Jareau during the case?”

He scoffed but opted to stay silent. Spencer had already given too much of his emotion away by answering the earlier questions. 

For any regular citizen, it may seem like the opposite but given the sound of you scribbling away on the pages of the notebook, you beg to differ.

You crossed your pant covered leg and stared into his eyes, a maneuver that could mean two things: 1) you were sizing him up, which was highly unlikely given the dynamics, regardless of his hostility or 2) you were trying to connect with him, a move backed by science that stated eye contact releases oxytocin—a bonding hormone. 

A study he didn’t want to prove right at the moment.

“Do you perhaps feel remorse for the unsub?”

His left eye twitched. “Tobias Hankel.”

“Is there a reason behind why you’d prefer to call the unsub by name?” You further asked, having found a sore subject to poke and prod to elicit a reaction.

The answer was yes, of course. Tobias was just a victim as much as he, Spencer Reid, was—the unsub, in his eyes, was a victim of bad fate that resulted in fracturing his psyche but a shrink didn’t need to know that. 

To be exact, the FBI didn’t need to know that he, an active and upstanding agent, felt remorse and guilt for not being able to save Tobias. Human emotion rarely had a place in bureaucracy and paperwork.

“How old are you?” Spencer nonchalantly inquired to throw you off his trail. “You look too young to be a Doctor contracted by the brass.”

You scribbled something again in your notebook before answering in a monotone voice as if your reply has been well rehearsed. “24, about to turn 25 and yes, I do look young. I graduated early due to my intelligence which I believe is the same case for you, Doctor—” you clasped your hands in front of you, leaning slightly forward. “—which brings us back to the topic, the anger inside of you, who is it directed to?”

His eyes shifted to the clock—5pm. 

A small smile graced his face. The time was up.

“Well, I believe we’re done here, Doctor—” he proceeded to stand up, picking on an imaginary lint as he did so. “—I would say it’s been nice meeting you but that would be a lie you’d no doubt catch and analyze.”

Your lips pressed thinly together, imitating a smile but Spencer knew that move quite well—you were reining in any unsolicited and possibly inappropriate comment regarding his snappy behavior. 

A small chuckle escaped his lips. If he, a profiler, considered you, a psychiatrist, his number one nemesis, there was no doubt you consider him the same. 

As he was about to step out of the office, your slender fingers brandished a calling card.

“Here’s my number—” he gingerly took it as if it contained some unknown pathogen. “—and my door is always open when you’re ready to talk, Doctor Reid.”

He nodded once, a goodbye. “Doctor House.”

There was little doubt in Spencer’s mind that he’d never willingly stop by your office again but if he had been paying attention to your subtle patronizing words of farewell, he would have picked up that this encounter was far from over. 

Especially when he found out on a busy Tuesday morning from Hotch that you had deemed him unfit to return back to the field—effectively barring him from the jet on its way to Idaho. 

The second meeting

There was a series of rapid knocks on your office door. 

As a psychiatrist with your own practice, it was highly unusual for clients to suddenly show up with no prior appointments or even a customary phone call. 

It was a Tuesday morning and like clockwork, you’ve allotted the first half of the day in catching up with paperwork dealing with your office and evaluations for the FBI. 

That gave you a pause, remembering a snipping agent who you deemed unfit for duty. Dr. Spencer Reid. The genius profiler who joined the ranks at the tender age of 22. A prodigy in his old field, just like you.

He was closed off, simmering with rage almost, and there was little doubt in your mind that he was the one behind the door, ceaselessly knocking. After all, when you sent in your evaluation directly to his unit chief, the stoic man’s face twitched with concern and maybe a little bit of annoyance in the paperwork it would entail.

“Come in,” you called out, hands clasping together on top of your desk. A perfect picture of professionalism.

The door swung open, revealing a tightly wounded Dr. Spencer Reid. 

With a thick cardigan adorning on his body and a leather satchel draped over his shoulders to his front, he looked normal. But you knew better, his choice of outerwear represented a security blanket in the middle of September and his placement of satchel acted as a shield and its’ straps a stress ball. With just that one look you knew he wasn’t ready to back with his team. 

“Dr. Reid, what can I do for you?” You asked, hand unclasping and indicating to the seat in front of you. “Please sit.” 

Closing the door behind him, he shuffled closer to your desk but made no indication to sit down. “I’d rather stand, Dr. House, and I think you know why I’m here.”

A show of dominance. Right away, he wanted control the outcome of this conversation to his favor. It was textbook psychology, a taunt you wanted no part of.

A slight smile appeared on your face, one that could be translated as friendly for those open and condescending for those closed off. “I believe I don’t follow.” 

“My evaluation, you made a mistake,” the left corner of his mouth lifting for a smirk. There was a vein visible on his temple, his anger and will to bottle it up manifesting physically. 

You tilted your head to the side, unwavering in your gaze, hands clasped and index fingers tapping together. The pause and silence was a standard tactic to get a patient to break, similar to what law enforcement uses with suspects but results may vary especially when used on a seasoned profiler.

Right away, Spencer understood your tactic. “That won’t work. We use that in every case, I know the standard—” he looked around the room. “—should I lower the temperature too?” 

You answered with silence. The agent in front of you now was no longer thinking clearly. His objective mind that would deem him fit to return for duty clouded with emotion, anger and something else. 

His right hand touched above his left wrist. A subconscious move provoked by your unrelenting gaze. A move that gave away an important piece of information that his unit chief no doubt omitted in the reports.

Ah.

Tobias Hankel was a drug addict.

And in turn has subjected the agent in front of you to his vices.

You sighed. Suddenly the case no longer felt black and white, it was treading close to home as you remembered your father who’s abusing Vicodin in lieu of his leg pain. It was a sore spot for you—a clink in your armor. 

“Sit, please,” you indicated to the chair in front of you again.

Spencer complied this time, having heard a change in your tone. 

“Dr Reid,” you started. “I believe my evaluation of you is still correct—”

He opened his mouth to argue.

“—but, please let me finish, perhaps we can compromise. As a psychiatrist, it’s not in my practice to give in to my client’s demands but as you are not a regular client, I believe it would be beneficial for the both of us to reach an understanding.”

You walked towards the locked cabinet to your right. It was where you kept all medical equipments—including medicine for patients. Reaching back to the depths of the lower shelf, your hand brought out a non-descriptive black pouch from its hiding. You sat beside Spencer, effectively communicating that you are both on the same level.

“I will approve your return for duty as long as you come back for a couple of sessions, not FBI contracted, strictly confidential, and you—” handing him the zipped pouch before continuing on. “—get drug tested.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he knew that his unit chief and mentor kept the delicate nature of his case out of the bureau and wondered how you pieced everything together. He underestimated you, you realized. A mistake on his end. 

“I’m a psychiatrist, I know the signs Dr. Reid, and besides, I’m a genius just like you,” you adjusted your posture, slightly leaning back. 

Check. 

He smiled, one that you could say no longer contained malice. It was instead filled with resignation and relief. “You’re right. I underestimated you, Dr. House.”

Standing up, you dusted imaginary lint from your black pencil skirt before extending your hand out for a handshake. 

He hesitated before reaching over shaking it once. His hands were rough and calloused from frequent holding of his gun but felt oddly warm and soothing. It represented who he was in your eyes—prickly and rough around the edges but soft and good on the inside.

As he exited your office with a soft thud of the door behind him, you admitted to yourself that you took a huge gamble. Rather than a checkmate, all you did was check his king. You didn’t ask if he had built his own stash of drugs after the case was finished. It was a risk you were willing to take just to take a step closer in getting the agent to trust you. Baby steps were better than nothing. You could work with that.

There was still the drug test you could rely on. A black and white piece of paper that would tell the truth if done at the right time. After all, the most important teaching your father, the older Dr. House, has imparted on you was—

Everybody lies.

The third meeting

The bar at the corner Main Street on a Friday night was a rare place for you to be. The echoes of its pulsing music could be heard a couple of shops away, luring bodies than the space could ever handle like it were Pied Piper and the people—by extension, you, were the unsuspecting kids. The lights were colored orange, giving the area a tint of good times and bad decisions. The aged brick walls discolored in a multitude of shades and the decorative posters were aimlessly nailed to the wall. There was a section far from the bar that was filled with moving bodies—people letting loose and exhibiting what you’d call a mating dance for anyone interested and beside the bar were two dart boards, popular with the crowd, but had seen better days. 

This wasn’t your usual scene as you excused your way to the bar tucked at the center space. It wasn’t due to snobbery, like what your friend Kyle once joked, it was preference.

The sticky floor beneath your sensible nude heels had you wishing that your feet were tucked in a soft blanket with mind numbing television playing in the background instead of navigating the throng of people holding their drink of choice and inhaling the musky scent of liquor and sweat.

“Haven’t seen you around here,” a tenor voice flirted from beside you.

Your eyebrow raised as you took in the source—a burly African-American with a buzzcut. There was something distinct about him that set him apart from the rest. It wasn’t his built or the way his grey shirt stretched to fit around his biceps. It also wasn’t the twinkle in his eye as he tried to entice you to flirt back. One of his hands drifted down to his waist and with his wide leg stance, you knew.

A cop. An off duty law enforcement officer.

You laughed. “Does that line usually work on women, especially from—” you paused for suspense. ”—a cop?”

“Okay,” the stranger chuckled. “Close, want to try again?”

A smile stretched your glossed pink lips. You were never one to back away from a challenge—it was one of the traits you inherited from the other Dr House.

“Well, if we’re basing it on where the bar is located nearby and my fifty percent guess from a while ago, I’d say you were a cop—maybe for a couple of years, before joining the FBI. Maybe counter terrorism—” the memory of Dr. Reid talking about his team found its way to the forefront of your mind. “—or by any chance, the BAU?”

He could no longer hide the surprise from his face. “Right, that’s right. What gave it away? Was it my ruggedly handsome looks or are you just a mind reader?”

You thanked the bartender before trying to find your way out of the surge of people behind you, clamoring to place their order. The stranger stretched out his muscular arms, guiding you away from the bar towards his booth.

“Just a mind reader,” you simplified—an action that came as second nature to you. In the past, when you would disclose your job as a psychiatrist, people would react in two ways. One, they’d get subconscious that you’d read into every body language they’d have, causing them to shy away or two, they’d become over-zealous and ask you to diagnose them all in good fun like it was some sort of magician’s trick.

A mop of light brown curly hair parked beside a long blonde hair caught your periphery. He had his back turned but it was a presence you’ve slowly started getting familiar with. It was Dr. Spencer Reid, out in the natural setting, a first.

Your eyes slowly widened as you realized where he was guiding you and who he might be. 

“Huh,” you uttered under your breath before flashing a smile to the stranger beside you. “Are you by any chance, Derek Morgan?”

“Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out. How’d you do that, Ms. Mind Reader?”

A different timber of voice answered. “It’s because I told her—” a pair of hazel eyes turned to you, filled with accusation. “—Dr. House. Are you keeping tabs on me?” 

“Dr. Reid, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

He scoffed. “In a bar? Near my office? The statistics on seeing me here is actually surprisingly high.”

He was hostile, understandably so as here you were, a stranger, who knows his deepest, darkest secret mixing in with the otherwise innocent parties of his personal life. It was no harm, caused no click in your armor—he’d been cooperative as of the late within the confines of your office but seeing you beyond the four corners of your taupe walls threw him off the loop.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” the blonde woman beside Spencer, flashed you a smile, hand stretching out for a handshake. “I’m Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.”

You shook her hand. “Ah, it’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau.” 

“So, how do you know Spence?”

You smiled, unsure on how to disclose your psychiatrist-patient relationship with someone he works with. You didn’t know how much his team members knew about his scheduled Saturday meetings with you or if they even knew at all what Dr. Reid was going through.

From the past appointments, you’ve categorized the agent as an anxious avoidant type—something geniuses who grew up in a non-secure household tend to share. Yourself, included.

Your eyes glanced at Spencer before drifting towards the table behind him, subtly trying to figure out his choice of drink. You hoped it was non-alcoholic. He’d be suffering from withdrawals and if he clung to a substitute vice, you’d have to find a roundabout way to tackle the issue without pushing him to close off again. You didn’t need that, he was just starting to open up after all, plus if he stopped cooperating, you’d have no choice but to bring it up to his supervisors, jeopardizing his career. 

A clear glass came into view as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

Water. It was water.

You breathed a sigh of relief before slowly panning up, locking eyes with Dr. Reid. His gaze narrowed, having understood what you were checking on.

Checkmate.

“She’s FBI’s contracted psychiatrist,” he explained, jaw tight from anger. 

You flashed him a little smile before averting your eyes in chagrin.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you look a little to young to be a licensed doctor,” Agent Jareau observed. 

“I graduated early.”

Morgan’s left hand pats your back while the other pats Dr. Reid’s. “Another genius, then. You’d get along great with our pretty boy over here. He’s always going on and on about facts and statistics—“

“No offense Morgan, but I don’t think we’d get along at all,” Spencer sneered. “I’d rather not get to know someone who has an ulterior motive.”

Your hand tightened around your glass. “It’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau and Agent Morgan but I think my friends would be looking for me,” you flashed the young agent a dejected smile. “Dr. Reid, hope to see you again soon.”

“I don’t,” he sardonically replied.

You nodded once before turning back to where you friends would be, settled in the four seater booth, unaware that you may have just burned the rocky bridge you’ve built with a patient in need. 

The fourth meeting

A warbled hum roused you from slumber. 

With one eye straining to stay open, the digital clock on your dresser displayed 12:21. Midnight—the time for humans to all be in stupor but based on the humming, subdued underneath your pillow, there was one exception.

You sat up, blindly reaching for the phone. There was no programmed name for the number and right away, an eerie feeling started swirling in your gut. This was no social call. A call this hour could only be one thing, an emergency.

“Hello. Who is this?” Your voice still rough from sleep.

No answer. 

You pressed the phone closer to your ear, hard enough to possibly leave a mark. There were light rustles on the other end that indicated a presence, a person that wouldn’t or couldn’t answer your inquiry.

“Hello,” you tried again, voice raising at the end from tension. “Is anyone there?”

There was silence. The dread in your stomach further worsening as if group of bats decided to wreak havoc in its dark crevices. There was no indication that this was a prank call and there was also no indication that it wasn’t. 

You bit your lip, torn between hanging up and waiting for an existence to make itself known. It could be nothing or it could be—your train of thought suddenly taking a sharp left turn to the corner that a certain FBI agent unknowingly occupies. You had given him your number, having scrawled it at the back of your calling card during the very first meeting, purely out of the goodness of trying to put back the broken genius that graced and intrigued your doors.

“Dr. Spencer Reid?” You hesitantly asked, hoping that your intuition was wrong. That this wasn’t the agent calling for help.

A deep groan answered.

“Oh gods,” you breathed out. “Okay, okay. Just—shit, just stay on the line. I’m coming, I swear. Just—fuck.” Your feet scrambled out of the apartment, never mind the lights or the chill that the midnight had cloaked the air with.

It was your worst nightmare. You knew what this call was, you knew his state on the other side of the phone by experience.

Hands trembling as you started the ignition of your car and speedily backing up the parking lot and out the streets in little time. 

“Spencer,” formality be damned at this point as you turned a sharp right, your GPS indicating 8 minutes away from destination. “Spencer, are you still there?” 

A light rustle replied. 

“I’m almost there, hang on for me, okay,” your hand letting go of the steering wheel to push the tousled hair away from your face.

Each second felt like an eternity, each time passed threatened to push your mind into the fog of panic and memory of your very own father taking a whole bottle of Oxycodone and leaving a message for you and your grandmother. The panic, the fear, and the dread of that very moment had come back in two folds.

Your clammy fingers leaving pinch marks on the back of your palm. “Not now, not now,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t have an attack now, keep it together.” 

“Dr. House,” Spencer gravely slurred.

You haphazardly parked the car at the nearest available sidewalk space, uncaring if by some miracle you get ticketed. “I’m here, Spencer. I’m here.”

There was a groan as you hurriedly ran up the apartment stairs, grateful that the security below was surprisingly lax.

Third floor, get to the third floor. I need to get to the third floor—you repeated under your breath. You could have called an ambulance or better yet his team member, SSA Derek Morgan, but you felt the urge to make sure he was alright. To make him see that someone else besides from his mother and team care about him. To make him see that life was worth living, no matter the good or the bad.

“Spencer, I’m outside your door,” you tried to catch your breath. “Do you think you could let me in?”

And for a few seconds, there was only the tense silence before a series of gasps and groans crescendo’ed louder and louder from the phone speaker and on the other side of the door. 

Shit. You knew what those grunts of pain and pleas meant, he was seizing.

Slamming down on the ground, uncaring if your exposed knees get bruised, you sent a silent thank you to your past self for leaving a hair pin inside the pockets of your sleep shorts. Breaking and entering was yet another skill set you learned from the other Dr House and his team of skilled doctors, you just never imagined you’d be applying that knowledge in breaking and entering a federal agent’s home. 

The door unlocked and you barreled your way to the living space where a frightful sight greeted you—Spencer on the floor, laying still as if he was peacefully sleeping.

“No, no, no,” you slid beside him, mind cataloguing every detail for the right action. An empty needle near his exposed right arm and an empty glass bottle of Dilaudid.

No rise and fall of the chest.

And no pulse. Medical training kicking in, you tilted his head up, clearing the pathway, and started chest compressions.

One. Two. Three—

“C’mon, Spencer, breathe,” you grunted in between pumps.

One. Two. Three. Four—

You leaned down to his chapped lips, blowing air to his mouth. “I need you to breathe for me, okay. Breathe, Spencer.” 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five—

“Breathe, c’mon Spencer,” you knew there was a high probability for the agent to have his own stash of narcotics and in by agreeing to keep his secret, lest he loses his badge, to get him to open up was a gamble. A risk you were now regrettably paying for.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—

“Dammit Spencer, I could lose my license for this. Breathe, I need you to breathe.”

A sputtering of coughs escaped his lips.

“Oh thank you, thank you,” you breathed out, arms sagging from the pressure of performing CPR and the weight of fear that you might have been too late. 

Spencer groaned. “Dr. House?”

You nodded, the salty tears blurring your vision. The image of him lying still was burned into your memory, the same way the mirage of your own father lying in a pool of his own vomit. He’s alive—they’re both alive.

Your hands angrily erased the rivulets the tears left behind on your cheeks. Now wasn’t the time to give in to relief and emotion. Although Spencer was out of the woods, there was still a huge uphill battle to tackle. 

“I’ll carry you to bed, lean your weight on me,” you huffed as you helped him up the floor, making sure to take in most of his weight that you could.

The form of you, tears still streaming down your face and steps away from a breakdown, and his hunched form, weak and pliant, was a sight to behold. It was a sight after battle—after the white flag had been waved and the injured tying their best to find their way back to life.

It was sad. It was hopeful.

It was a brush on humanity’s eternal friend, death. Death that still loomed in the corners of the apartment, biding his time to take what was promised.

You laid him gently on the bed before running back to the spied kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. The smell of books permeated the air as if to try and bring your panicked mind back to the present. If it were any other day, you would have found yourself perusing his shelves of eclectic classic literature but this wasn’t the right time and place.

Your bare feet sliding across the floor to make its way back to the groaning figure on the bed, threatening to sit up.

“No,” you tapped his shoulder to get him back down. “I need you to rest.” 

“But—”

“No buts Spencer. Rest, I’ll stay here.” 

His drooping eyes reading yours, trying to find any type of lie that would break his being further than it already was. Spencer was a broken man and this was the first time you could see written in his eyes his plea for help and company. “You promise?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” 

His hands blindly groping across the bed spread before it found the treasure it was searching for, your hand. He enveloped his with yours, calloused fingers intertwining with smooth. A contrast that brought him comfort—you were here. You were real. You felt safe. You saved him.

He was alive.

And with that, his eyes closed to fall into a peaceful slumber, one that he hadn’t had in months. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[kisses4reid]

understand? pt. 1 | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - you’re a polyglot translator assigned to work for the bau in a cross-national case, and there’s a doctor who wants to impress you.

genre - fem!reader, SHE/HER r, fluff, meet cute, you know more than spencer and he’s attracted to that

warnings - you're both awkward, mentions of gross case file photos, little research about polyglots actually done so there are inaccuracies, cliffhanger for part 2.

w/c - 1.4k

a/n - thank you for the req anon!! there was multiple parts to this but i really like the first idea so that’s what this fic is about, might keep the other idea for later hehe. i did change some aspects. love you, thank you for the support <33 there will be multiple parts!!! stay tuned!!!

req - hi pia 💞💝🩷💓 how r u? i hope you’re feeling wonderful! this is my first time requesting smthg i apologize if i get something wrong! i’ve been having 2 thoughts about spencer x fem!reader, where reader is a russian translator and idk they meet cute or she has to work with the bau helping them on a case. just wanted to give these ideas to you, obviously feel free to do anything with them! i really enjoy your work and your writing is incredible! i have your notifications on so i am always reading whatever you post! have a great day pia 💝 lots n lots of kisses for u!

This was not what you expected. 

You, a woman in your late twenties that spent most of her time in a room listening to voices and decoding foreign messages, didn’t know what you expected. But this: a scary boss, an italian old man, and a skinny college kid, was not it. 

“Y/n L/n? I’m Aaron Hotchner, the unit chief, and this is Agent Rossi and Doctor Agent Reid.” 

You nodded your head, thick hair covering your top eyelashes as you glanced at the men. Agent Rossi shook your hand, and Dr Reid simply stood and gawked at you. To be honest, it made you worried. You had been warned this was a close knit team, that they trusted each other more than anything and that you shouldn’t get attached to any of them as you’d only be assisting them for one case.

Maybe they just didn’t warm up to new people. 

“I’ll do your formal introduction to the rest of the team now, if you’re settled down.” He asks cooly. You like the way his voice rasps, it’s assertive yet comforting. 

“Yes, of course. I can’t wait.” You smiled reassuringly at the unit chief, not ignoring the raised eyebrow you received from the silent young man now behind you.

Aaron Hotchner, your new boss for the next week or so, lead you to a large room with a circular table sat in the middle. There were two other women, one blonde and one raven haired, and another bald man that glanced at you immediately after you entered. They smiled at you and trailed your steps to where you stood beside the unit chief in front of a large TV screen.

“Everyone, this is Agent Y/n L/n. She’ll be assisting us with the Becker case you’ve all been informed of. She’ll mainly be our translator and interpreter, but she’ll also be useful for cultural identifiers and anything that we wouldn’t notice otherwise.” 

You nodded along, never being a fan of introductions since you moved to America as a small child. 

“This is JJ, our liaison, Agent Emily Prentiss and Agent Derek Morgan.” 

The ladies smiled at you, in fact all of them did. They were surprisingly open to the fact you would be joining them, the fact made your shoulders loosen and a breath to be let out discreetly. 

Next, you were on a long plane flight to Maine with Agents you had known for little under two hours, conversing about victim profiles and motives. The table in front of the ladies and your boss was strewn with victim files and gruesome photos. And while you weren’t a stranger to the dangers and violence the job brought, you had gotten comfortable with only hearing about it and not seeing it. So you opted to hover around the table and stay silent, you weren’t a trained profiler after all, just a translator.  

There was a wave of cologne that disrupted your senses, causing you to angle your head back, only to be greeted by the tall doctor. 

You smiled softly, assuming the closeness was due to the aeroplane's arrangement. Also because you got the vibe that Spencer didn’t like you. 

“Are you okay? You seem uneasy,” he asked. It was the first time you heard his voice. And it was as adolescent as you imagined for someone so young, but it had a sophisticated edge to it, with a honey-like undertone. Finding things in voices as if they were perfumes was something you unconsciously started to do since working as a translator.

“I’m fine.” You grinned reassuringly, turning back to focus on the team’s findings. 

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows slightly and stepped away, sitting down beside Morgan who had taken a seat at the back. Morgan squinted at his friend, noticing the rare confusion splayed on his face as he stared in your direction. 

“What’s up? Pretty girl got your tongue?” Morgan removed his headphones with a cheeky smile displayed on his handsome face.

“For someone who specialises in languages she doesn’t talk much.” 

Morgan smirked, “Maybe not to you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong though.” Spencer ripped his gaze off the back of your head.

“You’ve been staring at her since she walked through those doors. You were so distracted you didn’t even greet her this morning.” Morgan pointed out. Spencer tilted his head confused, a small blush creeping up his neck. “I watched the whole thing from the conference room, so did JJ and Emily.” 

The tall boy slumped in his chair and forced himself to look out of the plane’s window, avoiding a reply to Morgan as he knew it would only result in more teasing. You were physically attractive, everyone could see that, but the thing that caught Spencer’s attention was your intelligence. He was no stranger to being a polyglot, he learnt languages for fun, but you were simply next level. Morgan studied Spencer’s face for a second before raising his attention to your hovering state. “Agent Y/n L/n.” Morgan called, causing Spencer to widen his eyes and immediately adjust his slumped position in his plane seat. You turned your head in surprise, slightly confused why you would be needed anywhere else than the files you had been translating for the past two minutes. Your heels were silent against the carpeted floors, but Spencer could sense your presence anyways. 

“How many languages do you speak?” The stoic man asked, his eyes darting between you and the doctor below you. You were not short, your genes didn’t allow for it, but you had noticed you were only taller than JJ and Rossi in the team and it felt foreign to not tower over everyone. “Um, I speak 8 languages fluently, and 4 languages semi-fluently.” You stated, readying to turn back to assist the team before Morgan spoke up once again

“Did you know that pretty boy can speak Spanish and German?” 

Before Spencer could help himself, he corrected the man, “And Latin and Russian,” Spencer turned his head up to you, “But I can understand more.” 

You smiled, genuinely impressed and confused on how a man that young could learn that much. But to be fair, you were in the same boat. The nickname got your attention, locking it in the back of your mind to remind yourself that the people you were working with did in fact have senses of humour, and weren’t just heartless officers. There wasn’t any reason to think that though, as you had been cared for with respect and even Prentiss made a funny remark beforehand. It sort of felt like a family dinner you were intruding on. “That’s impressive, Doctor Reid.” You reply genuinely. 

“I mean it’s nothing compared to you though,” his voice was pitched slightly higher and his hands started motioning to nothing in particular, “your brain is constantly changing from high activity to low activity when you're translating from one language to another. Your language network, the lateral frontal lobe, is constantly lighting up and dimming down depending on what language you hear, ordinary people’s language networks only turn on and off.” 

Morgan smirked and glanced up at your intrigued and surprised expression. You nodded, a small blush coating the tips of your ears as you responded, “Thank you.” You didn’t really know what else to say, which is funny for someone who understands so many languages, so you simply smiled and turned back to the table. Spencer slumped again, watching you walk away and asking himself why he would inform a pretty girl about her own brain, when she most definitely already knows about it. 

“Don’t worry too much, Reid.” Morgan called, grabbing Spencer’s attention. The boy raised a brow, not understanding. “She digs it, I can tell. But she’s just like you, knows how to speak in a million ways and still doesn’t know how to small talk.” 

You landed without any more awkward interactions, and got introduced to some sheriffs in Maine, one of them giving you a tighter handshake than the rest and a stare that could only mean unpleasant things. It wasn't something sexist or creepy that lingered in his eyes, it was more like hatred. Spencer took the sheriff's attention away from you after noticing what the whole team did, and asked him to show him the records they kept at the precinct.

Emily Prentiss came up behind you and placed a hand on your upper arm, squeezing it like she understood what you had thought you'd seen. Out of everyone else in the team, she would understand the most.

taglist (open!!): @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

twenty four, birthday boy | s.r. x fem!reader

“you look very handsome, birthday boy.”

spencer leaned his head back to see you standing beside his desk with your hands behind your back. dressed in a lavender short-sleeved button up paired with a simple black maxi skirt and your simple flats, a subtle smile pairing as your accessory, you looked radiant this morning.

“thank- thank you.” unconscious hand reaching up to mess with the giant birthday cake hat derek forced onto his head. it felt kinda nice to be treated like a kid on his birthday for once.

your eyes went up at the action then back to his face, “got you a present.” taking a small sage green wrapped box with a baby blue ribbon attached from behind your back, giving a tiny shake to it. fingers curled gently to hold the mystery gift outstretched.

“i tried to remember if you mentioned owning it or wanting to. i kept a receipt in cause though.” smile waving just a bit, it made his heart stutter a beat.

“i’d keep it anyway, it was from you.” his own smile twitching from nerves. his statement caused your smile to widen, cheeks scrunching up your eyes. “open it, spence.” you were the only one who calls him that.

finally grabbing the box, his slim fingers brushed over your painted nails before you pulled your arms away, tucking them back behind your back. spencer took his time peeling away the plastic wrapping and shiny bow, wanting to preserve the gift in its entirety. next came a cardboard box and once that was gone it revealed a cartoon figure.

“oh no way!” it was a bobble head figure of the fourth doctor. it was still inside the packaging and spencer was debating if he should keep it inside or take it out and proudly display it. then he noticed the small folded paper taped at the top.

“it’s just a small note slash birthday card.” speaking up after spencer went silent too long. he looked back towards you, “wanted it to be personal.” shrugging off the kind words and action.

slowly peeling the tape from the packaging, spencer set the gift aside so his full attention would be on the words you wrote from your heart. licking his lips then flipping open the small paper he was met with your cursive-print handwriting, he’s been able to understand your scribbled words after the first case.

happy birthday dr. spencer walter reid. yes i know your middle name and yes i got it off garcia, i wont tell though. it’s been a wonderful few months since you’ve joined the department and i couldn’t ask for a better new friend. (don’t tell pen, but you might be my number one now) to many more years together as a family. -love y/n l/n <3

-

a/n: @bringitonhomejohnb a wish has been granted

[mariasont]

HEAR ME OUT!

post prison Spencer and shy!reader bonding over being total nerds. Books, shows... you name it

Bookstore Physics - S.R

summary: spencer suggests you should compare moral biases more often. you think he's making a philosophical point. he thinks he just asked you on a date

pairings: post!prison spencer reid x shy!medialiaison!reader

warnings: fluff, second hand embarrassment im sure, philosophical debates that are probably wrong bc i had to google and i know hardly knowing about mr kant, existential crisis but make it romantic, post prison reid, shy reader, prolonged eye contact

wc: 1.6k

a/n: thanks for requesting my lovely! happy superbowl to those who celebrate! go birds!

You were so close. Just one more inch, and your fingertips would finally graze the spine of the book that had been taunting you from its impossibly high perch. 

Rising to your tiptoes, you reached with all the reckless confidence of someone who had severely underestimated basic physics. The shelf wobbled under your grip, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor, and in that split second, you were faced with a terrifying possibility that you were about to take out the entire bookshelf, along with your dignity.

Something grabbed ahold of you, steadying you before you could faceplant directly into a pile of literary fiction. 

You went completely rigid. Because that wasn't just something. That was a Spencer Reid hand, long fingers, warm palm, and a freakishly strong grip for a man who treated physical exertion like a concept rather than a practice.

"Oh. Hi, Dr. Reid," you blurted, the words tumbling out clumsy and unpolished, as if your tongue had forgotten how to function. You winced instantly. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer didn't answer right away. His grip on your arm slackened, but he didn't step away, didn't even give you an inch of space, like he had no intention of letting you breathe properly.

Oh, that's fine. Air is overrated anyway.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated as if he were genuinely considering the question, but you knew better.

His expression hovered somewhere between pity and uncontained glee, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Your lips parted, but your mind refused to cooperate, stuck on an endless loop of oh my god, did you actually just say that?

To Spencer Reid. The same Spencer who had, on multiple occasions, resorted to scribbling entire paragraphs on the back of receipts and once, when truly desperate, his own wrist. Spencer, who physically flinched at the sound of a cracked spine and once spent seventeen uninterrupted minutes explaining the significance of marginalia. Spencer who read like breathing and talked about prose like it was something alive.

And you, a person allegedly with working cognitive abilities, had just asked him what he was doing in a bookstore.

You opened your mouth, whether to correct yourself or just inhale enough oxygen to function again, you weren't sure, but before you could, Spencer, with precisely zero struggle, reached up and plucked the book from the shelf like it had been placed there specifically for him. 

"You should've asked for help," he murmured, and oh, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

"I-I had it under control."

One brow arched, unimpressed.

"Sure you did," he mused, lips twitching like they couldn’t quite decide whether to commit to a smirk. "Although, considering that 20% of bookstore-related injuries stem from ill-advised attempts at reaching high shelves, you were probably just one statistic away from a minor concussion."

You narrowed your eyes. "That's not — there's no way that's a real statistic."

Spencer barely reacted, flipping open the book with the same casual disinterest of someone checking the sky for clouds, except this wasn't a change in barometric pressure, and you were positive your entire nervous system had just gone into meltdown mode.

Your face burned, heat creeping up your spine and flooding through you veins at an alarming speed, and — oh, no — you had officially run out of places to look that weren't him.

And he (unfortunately) made such an easy focal point.

His shirt was rumpled like he'd spent the whole day forgetting to sit properly and a barely-there ink smudge kissed the edge of his palm, the kind only noticeable if you were close. His hair was at war with itself, some strands curling forward rebelliously against the collar of his cardigan, others falling forward, brushing the edge of his cheek.

He didn't glance up as he murmured, "Philosophy?"

The words barely had time to settle before your brain supplied an immediate translation: he was about to analyze you.

You could practically hear the gears turning, the internal mechanisms of his brain whirring at a speed that actually did defy physics. If you concentrated hard enough, you might've been able to hear the faint whir of neurons firing, piecing together a framework of analysis that was surely seconds away from being spoken into existence. He was surely already forming a hypothesis, already constructing some impossibly insightful revelation about what this particular title said about you, your worldview, your subconscious motivations.

"Well, yeah, that one," you said quickly, the words tripping over each other. “I mean, it’s not real philosophy — well, obviously, it is, but not in the way you would define foundational philosophy, but it still presents some really interesting moral dilemmas, and the writing is surprisingly digestible considering the subject matter is so —”

You clamped your mouth shut so fast it was a wonder your teeth didn’t rattle.

What were you even saying?

"Um — yeah. Philosophy. Or... something like that."

Spencer's lips twitched, and then, in a move so profoundly unsettling, he smiled.

Not just any smile, either. A real one. The kind that didn't just curve his mouth but softened him entirely, the corners tugging upward, a barely there dimple surfacing at his cheek. 

It hit you like a perfectly aimed dart —sharp, direct, and entirely crushing. Something fluttered wildly in your chest, light enough to feel stupid, but heavy enough to be a problem.

Then, still smiling, he tilted his head, leaning in just enough to invade your space, his voice dipping like he was handing you something fragile.

"I didn't take you for the existentialist type."

Your first instinct is to argue, to insist that you're far too well-rounded, too multifaceted, too impossible to be pinned down by a single school of thought. But before you can even begin to string words together, Spencer tilts his head just a little more, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that feels dangerously close to that same expression of analyzing once again.

And suddenly, you need to redirect this conversation, desperately, urgently, before your body betrays you, before you start visibly sweating or keel over like a fainting goat. Neither feels like an optimal outcome.

"I — I mean... I could say the same about you."

His lips quirk. "Interesting. And why's that?"

"I don't know. I always assumed you'd be more of a rationalist? Like, Descartes' methodical doubt feels like something you'd respect, and even Kant's categorical imperative, although that's more deontological ethics than strict rationalism, kind of aligns with the way you view morality and decision-making, and —"

You stop. Blink.

Oh no. You’re heavily invested in this man’s philosophical alignment.

You purse your lips, clearing your throat like that’ll erase the absurd level of thought you’ve just admitted to having.

"I mean, I'm probably way off."

Spencer flips the book closed, considering.

"I supposed you could argue I lean toward rationalism," he allows. "But morality is messy. Kant insists on universal law, and let's be real, most people abandon objectivity the second emotions get involved."

He glances at you then, a shift so small it shouldn't feel significant, but somehow, it does.

“For instance, we all make exceptions. We justify things we probably shouldn’t. Sometimes we prioritize people in ways that defy reason.”

His lips twitch. 

"Hypothetically speaking, of course."

“Well, yeah,” you say, caught up in the current of the conversation before you even realize you’ve been swept away. “People make emotional calculations constantly. Even when they claim objectivity, their decisions are shaped by personal attachments.”

The thought unspools too easily, words tumbling forward, carried by momentum.

“And it’s not just morality, it’s cognition in general. Have you read Jonathan Haidt’s work on moral intuitionism? He argues that people make moral judgments first based on instinct, and then rationalize them after the fact.”

You glance up, expecting a rapid-fire counterargument, some impossibly well-structured debate. But Spencer is just watching you.

"So what about you?" he asks suddenly. "Would you say you make exceptions?"

You pause.

"I mean… yeah? I guess I do. Everyone does, right? If someone I care about does something morally questionable, I’d probably be more inclined to defend them than if it were a stranger. I mean, that’s just human nature."

Then shrug. 

"But that doesn’t mean I’m being hypocritical," you add quickly, as if you just realized how that sounded. "I think there’s a difference between conscious favoritism and subconscious moral bias. It’s not like I have a specific person I’d automatically justify no matter what."

Spencer exhales. "I think you're more consistent than you realize."

You blink at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, lifting the book in his hands, fingers drumming idly against the cover. “You try so hard to rationalize your emotions. But I think, if it came down to it, you’d make an exception for someone. Just one.”

Your stomach knots, and it's humiliating how obvious you must be. You can feel your pulse everywhere, in your throat, your wrists, your temples, like your entire body is broadcasting, Hey, Spencer Reid is making you malfunction because he somehow sees right through you, somebody send help.

“I — well, I mean —”

“Relax, it’s just a theory.”

But something about the way he says it makes you not relax at all. And before you can scramble for some kind of coherent response, he nods toward your book.

“You should get that one,” he says lightly, handing you back the book. “I’d love to hear your take on it next time.”

You freeze. Next time?

Oh. Oh no. The words settle over you like an ill-timed realization, and your brain is running the math like you're about to file a report on your own social incompetence. Next time implies... a prior time, a recurring time, a pattern of times. Next time implies he assumes there will be a next time. 

And you assume that he assumes that you are the kind of person who could logically expect another bookstore trip with Spencer Reid as if that's just a thing that happens in your life. Which is absurd.

Your fingers tighten around the book, like holding onto an overpriced paperback will somehow restore balance to your rapidly deteriorating world. Your pulse is a problem and your ability to think critically is a casualty. 

You scramble for something, anything, to say, but before your brain can reboot, Spencer is already moving. 

Then just as he disappears into the next aisle, he tosses one final parting shot of his shoulder —

"See you soon, then."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[burymagdalene]

Heat Lightning: Part I – Smyster - S. Reid x Reader

When the team joins another behavioral analysis unit in an attempt to help them track down a serial killer attacking throughout Texas, Spencer finds himself drawn to the new profiler aiding in the investigation. Working alongside her, Spencer begins to feel a deeper connection, both professionally and personally as he yearns to know her more intimately.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Angst (Criminal minds thriller themes) & fluff tags: Spencer Reid x bau!female reader, bloodsplatteranalyst!reader, reader has bruises from a case, a tad suggestive, Spencer is horny and scared, murder, kidnappings, graphic depictions of yearning, dangerous heat wave, reader is a little cold and misunderstood… not by Spencer though! wc: 6.2k a/n: Part 1/2 of my bau!reader duology! I really wanted to give myself enough space to be able to write all the build up and the longing and the pining that I wanted and that Spencer is capable of!

Smyster

Scots; to smile to yourself while you daydream.

The first time Spencer saw you was when you exhibited a brutal beauty– a bloody nose and black eye as you walked out of the room he had just entered with quick feet as you rudely bump into his shoulder upon your exit.

The BAU was called in to help alongside your team in a case in Texas, though the department you worked for had credible merit, whatever psychopaths you were working with needed the folks in Quantico for extra help. 

Only slightly vexed (overdressed for the unrelenting sun), more confused, Spencer does a double take at your unit chief in his bewilderment.

“Don’t worry. She’s fussy about needing extra help even though her face looks worse than the unsub’s partner, and he’s dead.”

“A profiler?” Spencer mutters and looks behind him through the small glass window of the door to see you sitting on a desk talking to someone else on your team, arms crossed.

“Yeah. Came from forensic science, blood splatter analyst, decided to keep her around. Weird chick, definitely a hemophiliac.”

“Hm. I think you mean hematolagniac.” Spencer makes eye contact with you through the window. “Do you usually criticize your team behind their back?” 

“Whatever, kid. You’ll get it when you talk to her.”

Head aching, and sweat prickling his hairline, Hotchner interrupts their strange first impression.

“SSA, Hotchner. This is Dr. Reid, our expert on well- everything. SSA Morgan, Greenaway, and our communication liaison Jennifer Jareau. We understand that these mass serial murders are being enacted in a killing team, but the dominant partner is yet to be found?” 

One last up and down at Spencer and the other unit chief replies, “Correct. Seems like they were working as a pair in serial-turned-spree killings all over Houston. Caught the submissive earlier today and nearly wiped out a couple members of our team. We barely have a handle on the media, it’s absolute pandemonium all over Texas. Too much for us to handle alone, so we called you in.”

Hotchner nods curtly, Spencer can tell by the way his eyebrows pinch that he’s already overwhelmed. "We'll take a look over the behavioral profile you’ve begun. Let’s get the details on the submissive’s history, who they’ve interacted with, and what we can learn about their relationship dynamic. We need to understand what keeps them tethered to the dominant. We’ll also help control the media fallout. Get ahead of the narrative before it spirals further. JJ, meet with the folks with the Texas Tribune, we need to stave off mass panic.”

The door swings open, Spencer can feel eyes on the back of his neck before speaking, “I’m guessing the ‘spree’ part is the hard part. The submissive may be trying to protect the dominant. Any intel on him?”

The unit chief exhales sharply, eyes narrowed. "The dominant? They’re careful. Smart. And best believe the submissive may be the key to finding them. But he was shot before he gave us any information. We need leverage.”

Hotchner looks at each of them, then turns back to the chief. “We’ll start with your submissive. They’re our first lead.”

After setting up shop, Spencer has heard enough gossip from his team and yours to have his interest increasingly heightened and to be thoroughly frightened. Fifteen men and women have died in the past three days, bodies scattered in no recognizable pattern, and five currently missing. The missing persons billboard was enough to churn his stomach. 

Battered and bruised, he looks at you pouring coffee from the corner of the office. He now has more of an explanation for your crudeness, not that it even affected him. He doesn’t know you. Once cornered, unsub number 1, Darren Hawthorn, responded with immediate hostility, butcher knife in hand approaching you before being shot by another member on your team.

A clusterfuck of a case.

Not that he’s profiling you, but he is. Your self confidence is shot after your boss called the Quantico BAU in. Shell Shocked by the attack and humiliated by the call for help- you had no desire to talk to this new team that is making you feel less than adequate. 

But if he was going to help with this case, the two teams are going to have to trust each other. Spencer is going to have to understand the person with the most interaction with Hawthorn before his passing, you.

Tapping his fingernails anxiously on the wooden desk, Spencer stands to approach where you’re languidly sipping the black coffee.

“Ahem. Excuse me? I’m Dr. Reid. Um, Dr. Spencer Reid. I thought to introduce myself and ask you a few questions about Darren Hawthorn, if that’s ok?”

With a brutally slow turn, you look over your shoulder with a scowl, albeit, one that was smaller than the scowl you gave him when he first walked in. The sensitive skin under your right eye is bruised, matching the bruise on your cheek. Lip swollen and cut.  

“I don’t really think we need any help.” You settle on after a beat of silence.

Tell that to your black eye, he thinks.

“Um. Regardless if you do… we’re here and I’m willing to help. You’re hurt pretty badly too. Is there anything specific you noticed about the manner Hawthorn attacked, he used his fists, which was obviously different from the butcher knife wounds on the victims. He was armed with one too, right?”

“Yeah, well he wasn’t trying to kill me. Kicked my ribs really hard too. Some sort of humiliation ritual, I think. Now there’s a whole new team here, and we have to spend precious time explaining the details to you all when we can handle it. Embarrassing.”

You turn around to face him, placing your mug on the table.

“Ha, hot coffee is an interesting choice, it’s so hot out here.”

Spencer is met with two wide eyed and expressionless blinks. He has a desperate nagging feeling to start off on a good foot with you, he tries again.

“I don’t think you should be embarrassed. A-actually. A few months ago we were working with um, an LDSK, a long distance-”

“I know what it is.”

“S-sorry, of course you do. Um. A LDSK, and he held me and my unit chief hostage. In order to manipulate him, SSA Hotchner had to pretend to have all these grievances towards me. Asked to kick the crap out of me so I could grab his gun from his leg. Anyway, I got a faux belittling session and a few hard kicks to the ribs. We all go through embarrassing stuff.” He punctuates his story with a tight-lipped smile. 

She smiles!

A small up-turn to the corner of your cut lip after he finishes. He feels himself getting uncomfortably nervous. Spencer realizes he finds you incredibly beautiful.

A wince– the smile you cracked making your cut lip sting. You bring a finger to touch the wound lightly, checking for blood.

“That make you feel better?” Spencer can’t help but continue. The conversation ending is stressing him out, words coming out in an unconscious stream.

“It did. I can imagine that. Vividly.”

“Okay. Well I’m going to try to not take offense to that.”

You smile again, awkwardly, trying to keep one side of your mouth from turning up and sequentially wincing another time while laughing. It makes Spencer’s heart flutter. 

It makes him laugh.

“W-what?” Your brows furrow to their defensive default mode again.

Spencer fumbles. He’s not sure what to say. Hurting your feelings is the exact opposite reaction he wants from you.

“You just- um. I hope your lip heals quickly.”

He’s forgetting he’s also talking to a profiler. You read him quickly, social cues sharper than Spencers by a long shot. Like bells ringing in your ears, you know what he was smiling at.

“It kind of makes me look tough. Um. Ha, searing pain still though.”

“Well, lips heal relatively fast. They have a rich blood supply-”

You cut him off with a laugh.

“You’re singing to the choir, Dr. Reid. I know.”

Shame creeps up his spine. Twice now he’s rambled off on things it would be considered foolish of you not to know, he can’t help himself from running his mouth. Forensic science, Spencer. Blood splatter analyst, Spencer! 

“Your unit chief did mention forensic science, I apologize.”

“That’s alright.” you move and pick up your mug of coffee again, “It tastes better when it’s incredibly hot out.”

“I don’t- that can’t be true, it’s unbearable in here.”

“Because you’re wearing a shirt, vest, and blazer. Try it.” Your hands push out your cup as an offering. Spencer's gaze flickers over your knuckles rubbed raw before anxiety settles in his limbs about what was happening before him. 

Spencer takes your mug. The rim has a small chip that makes him think, just like its owner's lip. He lifts to his mouth and takes a scalding sip. The flavor is what offends him first, no sugar either. The warmth is second to it, Spencer just wanting to chug water after to rinse the murky taste out of his mouth.

He must’ve been wearing a disgraced look on his face as you start laughing at his reaction. He’s never had much control over his facial expressions. Before he can reply, Derek has sauntered over. 

“He usually takes about a gallon of sugar in his coffee. I wonder why he’d be so open to sharing like that. Complex guy.” Voice coated in sarcasm, Spencer’s embarrassed pink flush develops at the top of his chest.

“It- it’s just two teaspoons usually!”

“Two teaspoons, where?”

Unnaturally offended by Morgan’s teasing in the face of somebody he was trying to impress, he shifts his gaze over to scan your face for judgment. A small exhale of relief through his nose when there’s not. Just your fingers pressed slightly to your cut as you smile a wide grin looking over to him. 

“Dr. Reid, you have to stop making me smile or my cut is going to reopen.”

𓆱

Spencer is cursing himself for his attire as he’s posted in a junkyard with an uncompromising sun shining down on him. As he looks into the distance he can see the heat moving against the air in small swirls and currents. 

There was a report from the junkyard's owner that a car model that matched the unsub’s license plate was dropped off earlier today to be crushed. Since ​​the junkyard might be linked to the suspect in some way, Spencer and Derek are watching for any suspicious activity around the junkyard to see if the unsub returns, attempts to retrieve something, or communicates with anyone. 

While Derek and another member from your team are looking at the car for any evidence left behind; blood, weapons, fingerprints, Spencer sits on an old lawn chair from the yard as he squints through his sunglasses for any suspicious activity. 

The second day on the case trumps the first in terms of heat. Spencer picks at the skin of his thumb to avoid focusing all his attention on the inescapable summer heatwave clogging his lungs.

His mind feels heavy and hazy. Waiting is the worst part. Beside him plays an old radio that’s reporting live news updates, he’s listening through the static to hear if any confidential information gets released after JJ’s meeting with them. Damage control playing the role of short form entertainment. 

“Hey! Come here, we found something!”

Rolling out of the chair he was sitting on painfully stiff as the percentages of germs on unused junk rattle off in his brain like atoms bouncing off each other’s repulsive electromagnetic forces, Spencer makes his way to the pried open trunk.

“Yeesh.” Is all he can make out upon first glance. Different patterns of wet to dry splotches of blood adorned the fabric upholstery and rusted metal of the roof. There must have been way more victims than what he anticipated.

So the unsub has never even been bothered to clean where he has stored endless wounded bodies. Interesting. This clearly showcases how blasé it all has been to him, how certain he is in never being caught. 

“Let me call Hotchner, he can notify any medical examiners on sight.” Derek adds with an affronted groan. He turns away from the trunk, avoiding its Pollock of gore. 

The other profiler Spencer has yet to be introduced to speaks up, “No need,” a slight laugh forming in his tone, “We can handle this ourselves. We’ve got forensic pathology on our team.”

Spencer’s head snaps to your teammates fingers dialing your number. His heart starts pounding. He hasn’t seen you since yesterday, Spencer nearly forgot that he went up to you to console you about his being there. This is indeed that being there.

With a few items left on the floor of the car being placed into plastic baggies for evidence, Spencer’s skin flushes underneath his rubber gloves as he hears the tell-tale sound of a car grinding over compacted dirt as you enter the crime scene. 

Riddled with nerves, when he looks over to the sound of the door closing, he keeps his head low as if not to seem too eager to see you. Backfiring immediately, Spencer is met with brown boots and jean shorts that make him move his eyes up to your face in fear of staring too long and seeming inappropriate. 

“Hey.” you start, walking briskly over to the trunk, shooting Spencer a look from above your sunglasses that makes his stomach tumble over itself.

He tries to blink away the stars in his eyes at your personalized greeting towards him. Spencer does not need you to think he’s the freak on the team who grins ear to ear next to a car trunk covered in blood.

You step forward, leaning over the trunk briefly, carefully eyeing a particularly grotesque smear that leads to a dark corner of the space. The layers are thick, chock-full and stacked upon each other, creating shadows of different shades etched everywhere. 

The darkest areas are so thick that there is a noticeable protrusion due to the layering that juts out from the wall. Dark and oppressive, the red bleeds so inky that they appear to be holding secrets– secrets about the victims' last moments– secrets like dark corners closing in around Spencer. A deep red akin to the darkness he stares into at night that mobilizes his fears and plays tricks on his eyes. 

Spencer’s gut tightens, woozy and sweaty from the suffocating heat and dreary images in front of him.

Trying to focus through the dizziness swirling in his head, his throat tightens, but he forces himself to speak. “What do you think happened here?”

A soft hum, a gentle noise that acts as a soothing cool across his warmed forehead– “Yeah. This suggests they were either dragged or forced to move here after the initial injury, look. The pooling blood… it’s like it didn’t just happen all at once. It layers overtime. The peeling here shows that it’s not new. It could be a week or days old, it’s hard to tell because it’s so hot out, that could impact the drying process.”

Spencer forces his burning gaze off your cheek to the protruding splotch on the wall, where the blood has dried in almost mutilated ridges. 

“It looks like something was… lodged there. Like someone fell against it.” He takes a slow breath, trying to steady his shaking hands. “Sorry.”

“Right,” you comfort, “So obviously his drive to take victims to their specific drop off points to die entails there’s significance in the different locations. Even though they’ve all been different.”

Derek clears his throat, “What do you make of the really dark places? It’s like there’s intention in having the wound bleed out over the same spot, nowhere else looks like that corner. Surely it’d be difficult and out of his way to position them to be bleeding out in identical areas of the trunk.”

You exhale softly, your tone dry. “Mhm. And it's not just about the blood. It’s about what the blood’s telling us about what happened before. Whoever left this, they didn’t just hurt the victim… they tried to erase something, cover something up in my opinion.”

Spencer picks anxiously at his skin again, “So, they wanted the victim’s last moments to disappear. Have every ending the exact same way to remove individuality.”

Meeting his eyes, you smile softly, seeing through this inopportune moment of weakness for Spencer. “Nasty stuff. That's what we need to figure out. What they were hiding in this before the blood.”

𓆱

Both teams called in, the junkyard is swarming with agents and police officers. Spencer’s back on the longchair he wished he’d seen the last of, but with this heat he has no other choice but to sit down.

Standing, no, looming over where his bad posture droops him over his knees, you cast an observant and protective eye on him.

“You alright?”

Despite the swelling in his throat, he has no qualms with responding to you. 

“I’m really hot.”

“It gets pretty dangerous being outside for extended periods of time in this heat wave. How long have you been out here?”

“Hm. Four hours and twelve minutes.”

You smack your lips at him, “You’re going to get a sunburn.”

Spencer's eyes crack open then. He wasn’t even thinking about that. 

“Actually,” you begin, a teasing voice beginning to take over your usual cadence, “I think I can see some pink already on the back of your neck.”

Before Spencer can retaliate, mutter something along the lines of: No! I’m just blushing! or No! A sunburn on top of everything would send me spiralling!, he feels the gentle pressure of your nail pointing, grazing, against the back of his neck.

Out of a flustered reflex, he brings his hand to swap away your finger. Instead of getting offended, you giggle at him, the same finger checking your lip again. Within 48 hours you’ve developed a nervous tick– checking that cut religiously. Spencer is reminded that just the other day you could’ve been killed, he feels guilty about whapping your hand like a stuck up cat.

“Sorry. I didn’t hurt you did I?” He mumbles to his feet, too shy to meet your gaze all of a sudden.

“Are you kidding? You’re fine, I’m not made of glass.”

The tone of your sentence decrescendos into a smaller, less confident delivery. Halfway through realizing the irony in your statement being muttered through battered lips. You sigh gently, reminded how indicative your bruising is of what you went through, walking around with a scarlet letter that demands unwanted remorseful attention. 

Trying to change the topic as soon as you are able you start up again, “I have some. In the car. Would you like-”

“Yes. Yeah, please.” Spencer does a gentle laugh in return. He does not know how to act around you, it pains him like for the first time he has no knowledge on a subject that he deeply longs to– you. 

Spencer’s tongue runs languidly over his bottom lip, as a balm or as an anticipatory reflex, could be anybody’s guess, as he watches you speed walk to your car.

He starts to roll up his sleeves, sacrificing sun protection for the release of built up heat that seems to engulf him more as you’re around. It’s frustrating, he thought living through the childhood crushes he’s had on girls damaging his esteem would be enough to release him from these encompassing thoughts of touch. Of skin on skin contact.

That’s what it is too, childish. The way he’s fawning and fidgeting with tension around you— it’s taking him back to being fifteen and irritable with hormones. Yet here he is, unprepared and floundering once again in the presence of a pretty face, pretty mind, worst of all. 

Spencer, like it or not, is back where he promised himself never to be again after he was tied to a goalpost and humiliated for believing a girl had a crush on him. 

Indeed back, he scratches his arm and curiously eyes you under the hidden confines of his dark sunglasses. If he slips, the staring could be seen as a gaze towards you as if you were a popsicle that he could be licking to placate his whirling sun kissed skin. Maybe it would be mango? No, lime. Sour and sweet that not everyone has a taste for. Licking and licking as it melts under the woozy rays of sun, dripping down Spencer’s fingers.

But that’s definitely not what his staring is about…

Just before Spencer’s thoughts can get into uncharted territory you’re walking back over to where he’s sitting, SPF 50 shining in front of him so confrontational he gets awkward thinking about everyone on site seeing his unfortunate need for it. 

Making eye contact with it momentarily, he shifts his eyes up to your face, your eyebrows raised slightly. Hand still holding it out for Spencer to take.

A second passes, then, “Are you going to take it?”

Shaking his head to reset his social battery, Spencer laughs at himself and takes it from your hand. “Sorry, thank you, I just…”

“Dr. Reid, did you think I was going to put it on for you?”

“What? No!” His voice raising in pitch, maybe he was waiting for that. “It’s just- too hot to think straight. It’s Spencer. Ahem.”

“Huh?”

“Um, it’s Spencer. You should call me Spencer. Not Dr. Reid.”

“Okay, Spencer.”

Then, something strange happens. For the first time since you’ve met, Spencer notices a dip in your steadfast manner. A small glimpse into a shy response that gives him a sense of hope that he can’t quite identify. 

He can make you nervous?

𓆱

Out of harm's way from the steady calefaction in which the temperature has been loyal to all day, Spencer and his team are sitting inside a muggy office eating sandwiches. Your team is paralleled and eating across the room, a less personable and warm way about them.

Placing his sandwich down, Spencer rattles off more of his thoughts on the case that have been plaguing him, “The unsub’s apparent desire to control and avoid leaving traces of himself could indicate a need for perfection, but also a desire for power over life and death. This could be a psychopathic personality with deep narcissistic tendencies.”

Spencer’s not the only one sensitive to the incapacitating heat, he gets nods and hums of acknowledgement in return.

Elle breaks the silence, “Look at that. Don’t you think it’s weird that we’re not all sitting together? Aren’t we supposed to be working as a team?”

With a nod of agreement JJ confirms some of her suspicions, “I’ve never seen a unit work together like this. They don’t work well with each other, or some do and some don’t. I can’t imagine having to work in that environment.”

He casts his eyes across the room, seeing the group of men give each other the cold shoulder. Eyebrows furrowing, he realizes you’re not with them. Like his thoughts manifested you, there’s a soft yet unmistakable clatter of your boots as you approach their table, lunch in hand.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

As if you had asked Spencer directly, and not the entirety of the table, every member turns and looks over to Spencer.

“Y-yeah. Of course.”

“Thanks. They’re tough to be around sometimes.”

Sitting down next to Spencer you begin to eat. A slight brush of your knee against his has him slowing his eating to not choke and die in front of everybody he knows. 

Elle smiles, “I can imagine. I noticed the all-male team. How’s that?”

Groaning around your sandwich you roll your eyes, “Miserable. You are so lucky I swear-”

Breaking any illusion of teamwork and solidarity, your unit chief appears with a deep frown. He clears his throat to interrupt you, “When this is over we need to have a discussion about your attire.”

“W-what?”

Eyebrows around the table shoot up in disbelief at the public scolding. Spencer recalls earlier, your unit chief describing you as weird. He definitely has a one-sided reservation towards you, oozing misogyny.

“We’re working on a murder case. There needs to be professional boundaries to follow. Shorts and a tanktop do not qualify.”

“Sir, it’s 110 degrees out, if I wore pants I could pass out when I’m on the field.” Spencer watches you fall into yourself, demeanor and confidence dwindling.

“Well. I’m not making a scene in front of these lovely folks here. Just keep that in mind, please.”

With a spin of his heels he retreats back into a smaller office, discusses with police officers working the case as they shake their heads, probably in reprimand.

“S-sorry. Wow. I don’t know what that was. I apologize.” Your eyes fall to your hands on your lap, embarrassment creasing into your previously bright eyes.

“That’s absolutely ridiculous. Do not apologize to us, please.” Elle supplies with a wave of her hand trying to dissipate the tension.

Spencer knocks his knee into yours again, “He seems like he doesn’t understand how important you are to the team.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that-”

“I would. They’d be utterly lost without your help. Seriously.” Spencer finalizes.

Without a second thought, he gets an idea. A stupid, smitten, and gooey with intent idea that pulls the strings to make his fingers move without his brain consenting fully. With idle fingers he begins loosening his tie, fingers smoothly pulling it down and over his head as he removes it fully.

A small smile tugs his lips as he places his tie around your neck. A silence falls at the table that flies over Spencer’s head– his focus stuck on cheering you up. Quickly, he fastens it around your neck again, trying to avoid brushing his fingers against your throat, but failing a couple times. The electricity from the miniscule contact intimidating him. 

“There. Professional enough now.”

Slight goosebumps raise on your neck, as you laugh with a shocked expression. Way too much attention towards you in the past five minutes to know what to do with.

Spencer’s tie is now properly fixed around your exposed neck, your tanktop and shorts are completed into pseudo-professional garb, alerting the ridiculousness of the situation. More important, alerting the team of Spencer’s infatuation towards a certain blood splatter analysis.

Running a soft hand down the expanse of his tie you speak through your grin, “Yeah, I definitely feel more status-quo. Thank you.” Finishing with a giggle, you look away from Spencer and towards the widened eyes around you.

Not able to contain himself, Derek finishes sipping his drink and blurts, “Man, you really aren’t hiding anything.”

“Well, I... it’s just...” Spencer starts, before cutting himself off with a deep breath. “I mean, it’s not…look, it's just a tie, okay?” 

He can barely even move let alone glance at your face, though he can feel your eyes looking at him. 

“Sure, loverboy.” Derek adds, leaning back in his chair with a raised eyebrow. “It’s just a tie. Keep telling yourself that. Never seen you so affectionate.”

Embarrassment gripping his throat and strangling him, Spencer knows he’s overreacting but he can’t help the feeling of betrayal, even if it was teasing. So he can avoid spilling a defense or risk another trembling response, Spencer gets up silently to go to the bathroom. Through the ringing in his ears he hears Elle’s simple scolding, “Derek.”

Turning on the faucet he splashes freezing water over his skin, hoping that this can possibly wash away his feelings over the past few days. His obsession, his yearning, all the fascination and disgust. Spencer wants the chrysalis he’s developed during this case to peel off and roll down with the droplets of water to spiral into the sewage drains. Leaving who he was before meeting you, before coming to Texas. 

Face framing pieces of his hair are becoming increasingly more wet as he continues his washing, face pink from the bitterly cold water repeatedly splashed. 

Spencer gets only a few moments with his face in the sink before the bathroom door swings open. He sees the tie first, a mocking symbol now instead of a cute peace offering as he expected. Then, 

“Spencer?” Your soft voice echoes off the walls in the empty bathroom creating a sensual reverberation, it’s painstaking for him. 

“Wh- what? You can’t be in here. This is the men’s-”

“Are you being serious?”

You make eye contact through the mirror. 

“I’m. I don’t know what I’m being.” Spencer acquiesced once catching your eyeline.

“You’re being silly.” You maneuver yourself so your backside is pushed against the sink where Spencer is leaning over.

With how the vulnerability of showing his feelings has led him to punishment in the past, Spencer can’t help but feel a looming cloud over him at his twice removed confession of enamorment. He feels like he’s crossed a professional boundary, like he’s made you uncomfortable. Spencer could’ve gone the rest of his life hiding these feelings that have lit a fire in his stomach, and now they’re out in the open.

“I’m sorry. I am- I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” He settles on as a response.

“Oh. You’ve misread the situation. You haven’t made me uncomfortable in the slightest. If anything, maybe I’ve-”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable. I mean, you do. But in a way that feels good.”

You laugh briefly and cover your mouth with your hand, you don’t think laughing in his face would serve him any good right now.

“So, that’s settled. Truce?”

Spencer’s grin comes back, shakes his head while muttering, “Truce.”

You stretch out a hand- “Oh come on, we have to shake on it.” 

Without noticing how this moment would be Spencer’s point of no return, he brings up his hand and wraps it in yours. The spark that he’s gotten small flickers of while brushing against you or staring in your eyes when you explain something widens enough to engulf him fully.

The handshake lingers longer than any “truce” handshake in all of history, Spencer thinks. The air shifts in a way he’s not ready for, and suddenly, the playful tension you’ve been riding on seems to have deepened. 

You flash him the same smile you’ve always given him, full of expression he’s never been exposed to before. An adoration he’s been too scared to dwell on but now something’s changed. You both know it. Neither of you address it, but its presence is unavoidable now, hanging between you now like a concaving sinkhole.

Both of your eyes glimmer with the raw intimacy of sharing an unspoken secret.

𓆱

The following day a pressure washer was used on the inside of the car trunk after the blood covering everything was properly analyzed, a process in which he watched you perform with wide eyes across the brutally air conditioned lab. 

The rubbery smack of medical gloves being removed from your skin breaks the silence of the room, “It’s incredible that all the different splatters match the victims, and he never managed to leave one drop of blood from himself. Crazy odds.”

“Could be a clean freak, or just meticulous. The odds of him not leaving any fingerprints in a controlled space where they’ve been actively moving around and committing murders is extremely low.”

“The chances go up too when working with this much blood, a fingerprint would be bound to show up with all of it spread around, especially if he’s maneuvering them into a specific area.”

Before the five missing bodies could even be found, you were able to discern a match of blood between them and all five people vanished. Though this may point to their return being shot to shit, before locating the bodies, all bets are still on. 

With an abrupt swing of the lab door, Hotchner is walking in with printed photographs of the contents in the trunk.

Deep engravings of various symbols and a repeated latin phrase hidden under the soft carpeted trunk:

Daemonium Imperium, Fides aeterna

Seemingly carved with a knife or some other metal tool, the trunk devoid of blood incites the same amount of fear as it did bloodied. 

You gaze over the photographs intently, speaking first, “Is that latin? Do you know what it means?”

Spencer nods, “The Devil's Dominion, Eternal Faith.” 

Your eyebrows raise, impressed and scared at the underlying message alike. “So we’re dealing with a religious cult now?”

Hotchner nods curtly, “We need to expand the profile. Two unsubs is not nearly enough, which is why there’s so many drop off sites and why they all have a meaning to the collective group.”

“What, like a twisted hazing ritual?”

Spencer looks up from the photographs, his brow furrowed as he considers your question, “A-almost, yeah. It seems more like a form of symbolic initiation or perhaps a purification ritual. The ‘Daemonium Imperium’ could represent a kingdom or reign of darkness, while ‘Fides aeterna’ could signify an unwavering faith in something beyond this world. I think I recognize this symbol- it’s common in occult practices, specifically in some of the more obscure, pre-Christian traditions. There’s a connection to ancient rituals, especially those that involve sacrifice or the offering of blood.”

Your eyes shift to Hotcher as he begins again, “You recognize this?”

“Yeah… I think I read about a Texan theology professor a while back causing a disturbance in one of his classes when introducing occult themes to his study. That was in… Jefferson.”

“Well, if he’s in Jefferson we’re going to have to leave as soon as possible, it’s almost a four hour drive.”

Hotchner collects the photos together again, “You need to notify the rest of the teams, we can take a few cars and head out in 15.”

Luck seemingly against him, (understandably) the cars were separated by the two teams working the case, meaning that the duration of the car ride to Jefferson Spencer was stuck looking at the back of your car instead of you in it. 

Squished in the backseat Spencer grimaces as the radio shouts it's eerie weather report that silences the car as they listen in quiet bewilderment.

Watch out Texas, today will be the hottest temperature in recorded history, with highs up to 120 degrees fahrenheit. Stay inside today folks, heat exposure at these temperatures can lead to heat exhaustion and heat stroke.

“They can’t be serious. What are we going to do?” Elle mutters behind the steering wheel.

“We’ll do what we can when we get there, discuss with local police. Obviously we want everybody in good shape for us to properly help potential victims.” Hotchner replies with a deep sigh, outwardly frustrated with the nonstop trials and tribulations of this case.

They arrived around 3:00 pm to the Jefferson police department. Though it’s a small town, the building usually holds more than two people, who are only here because of the urgency for this unsub. The chief of police and the lieutenant debrief everyone on locals that might’ve been in contact with the professor and of other strange occurrences that might have been happening around town; two missing people of their own.

After being filled in on important parameters by both teams the chief of police gives a sullen face to Hotchner as he explains the difficulty of performing anything in this heatwave.

“We’re trying to keep people inside with these temperatures and with a curfew after those girls went missing, there’s going to be nobody outside, that includes your killer.”

Your unit chief replies, “What do you suggest?”

“Well. I suggest that you stay at my buddies motel until tomorrow morning. You mentioned they’re killing on a schedule- you still have time from what you’re telling me.”

As if crows were cawing in an attempt to scream “turn back” at kids walking into the wrong neck of the woods, a sharp bright whip of heat lightning from a far away storm emphasizes your need to hunker down.

“Alright. We can set up shop at the motel till morning,” Hotchner relents, “Does he know we want to stay there?”

“Called him about it when you were driving up. Said he had six open rooms with how little people are travelling today.”

Spencer's demeanor changes at this- “But there’s ten of us here.” He offers like it wasn’t apparent.

Shooting him a glance, Hotchner’s face has a bit of amusement in his expression now. “Looks like we’re doubling up.”

An instinctive reflex pulls Spencer’s eyes to meet yours, which were already glued where he was standing. Tilting your head to the side, a simple acquisition that tightens Spencer’s throat and sends electricity through his bloodstream.  

All his life, the concept of looking at someone and knowing what they were thinking without saying any words seemed like an overrated notion to Spencer. Words were his everything, they drive his life, they’re the foundation of his passions. 

While he’s reading paragraphs in your eyes from across the room, Spencer understands now how the intimate words he’s been missing out on were those unspoken, only comprehended through a coalition of hearts.

Which is his exact reasoning for closing your car door behind him later. 

[rauspberries]

still a friend. - s.r.

sure hope it was one hell of a kiss, my friend.

spencer reid x bau liasion!reader.

summary: after your new boyfriend turns out to a murderer, spencer will do anything in his power to help you smile again.

tags: afab reader, sunshine x sunshine, mentions of guns, kidnapping, murder & other themes present in criminal minds, panic attack, hurt/comfort, forced proximity that’s not forced at all, i like to imagine it as later seasons reid [however there's no mention of prison arc], still a friend by the backseat lovers

word count: 3.1k

notes: ok hear me out. think about the episode 'lucky' and the episode 'penelope.' that's what i'm going for here. this is my first ever time writing spencer. it took me days. free me.

hey @reidswrld

If you closed your eyes tight enough, you felt like you were still there. Cold metal pressed against your temple, harsh words in your ears, the pull of rope against your wrists. Despite the familiarity of your home, decorated in low lights and multiple potted plants that were loved like your own children, you had been afraid. He had turned it into a place of fear, a spot for nothing but bad memories and bloodstains in your carpet.

It had been almost three weeks since your team had pushed into your apartment, only to be met with the sight of you bound to your dining room chairs, your boyfriend of only a couple weeks holding a handgun to your head. You loved those chairs, and had told the whole team about them right after you had purchased them. They were thrifted, hand-carved by an artist you never had the pleasure to meet. Shame that you’d never be able to look at them the same anymore.

Your boyfriend had been an idiot. A psychotic one, but an idiot all the same. He had left too much evidence behind with his three victims, making it too easy for your team to profile him and pick him out of their list of names. Once you had accidentally let it slip that the BAU was on the tail of their suspect, you had become a problem, needing to be eliminated. So he had tried.

You had worked as a liaison for long enough to learn a few tells of body language, or the original signs of psychopathic behavior. Despite this, you had missed all of them when it came to him. You had been too excited to find someone that could handle your busy and erratic schedule, someone that loved you for you, something that was rare in this day and age. You had even let his passive-aggressive demeanor slide, along with the comments that always tended to sting somewhere deep inside.

After he had been taken down by Morgan and Hotch, you’d wanted out of your apartment as soon as possible. JJ and Garcia had packed up your stuff based off of a small list you provided them once your hands and voice had stopped shaking. They had whispered in your presence, keeping secrets about the case to each other and asking if you were okay. They hadn’t needed to whisper – your ears hadn’t stopped ringing.

For a while, you stayed in a hotel, curled in the cool sheets that smelled like nothing as you stared at the plain walls, so different from the house you had turned into a home with wallpaper and pretty colors. For a while, you chastised yourself for not getting over it faster. You thought about how you should be stronger in times like these, especially with everything you saw on a daily basis in your job as the BAU unit’s liaison. Unfortunately, it was a lot easier to compartmentalize when it wasn’t happening directly to you. 

You weren’t like everyone else on your team, you couldn’t just act like these things didn’t happen.

You tried to trick your brain into producing serotonin. You attempted to shower every morning, eat three meals, even exercise in the seclusion of your hotel room. But every shower ended with you staring blankly at the wall, every meal went untouched, and once you were on the ground, you couldn’t get back up. 

As normal protocol, you were given a minimum of three weeks of leave in the wake of the event. For the first week, everyone took turns checking on you. Penelope brought you fun-colored stress toys that collected dust on the side table, while Emily and JJ sat with you to chat about anything but what had happened. 

And Spencer? Spencer brought you company. He sat at the desk chair in the corner, long legs stretched out as he babbled about anything and everything. Sometimes, he sat there quietly, only speaking up to ask you if you knew the answer to a certain crossword question. Usually, it was something easy, something he already knew. Like, a passionate declaration, like in marriage vows – the answer was too obviously avowal.

Each time he visited, he left a book for you, annotations directed towards you scribbled in the margins and tabs marking the parts he thought you’d like best. The first book, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, had a scrawl on the author’s dedication page, with Reid noting both opinions and facts about the book. You felt your lips twitch with the ghost of a smile as you read the definitions of both of the words in the titles and how they were related to the actual book, as you read the words and the facts the doctor had written in the blank spaces.

After a week of Spencer stopping by every day before and after work, you gave him the extra keycard to your room that you had been given when you checked in. A lot of the time you didn’t have the energy to crawl out of your bed, so it made it easier for you. Despite having the key card, he still always knocked, waiting on some type of verbal sign before actually opening the door and stepping in.

One night, he stopped by your hotel room, a take-out bag looped over his forearm as he rustled in his bag for the keycard. Once it was curled between his palm and fingers, he lightly rapped on the door, leaning his head closer to it to listen for your voice calling for him to come in. His brow furrowed when he was only met with the sound of your room’s AC unit and the faint sniffles it attempted to cover.

Immediately, he had bursted into your room after sliding the key card into the slot above the knob, long legs getting him to your bedside as soon as possible. His eyes had softened as he took in the sight of you sitting up, arms laced around your knees, which were pulled up to your chest defensively. Your eyes were dark, sullen, the whites of them red with irritation from pushing away tears. Even your breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling quickly until it sounded like wheezing.

Spencer had pulled you practically into his lap, your fingers gripping at the soft material of his sweater as his large hand ran up and down the expanse of your back. He had murmured soft words that didn’t quite register to you, however were soothing all the same, as he pressed your hand to his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart.

Once you had finally been soothed properly, your breathing evening out as his hand slowed until it lay still on your spine, you explained to him that you had been woken by a nightmare, the same one that had been playing through your head for the past two weeks. Immediately, he insisted that you stay at his apartment. As if proving it would help steer your decision towards a “yes,” he spilled out facts about processing traumas, like how talking to people and reminding yourself of pleasant hobbies, along with being in a familiar place, would help with recovery.

Which is how you ended up curled up on his couch, fingers tracing the pages of the book in your lap. You had been picking through all of Jane Austen’s books since you had started sleeping on his couch, with Emma being your pick of the week. Spencer hadn’t gotten to annotating this one yet, too busy with a new case that had just come in, so you had plucked a pen off of his desk, scribbling notes just like he usually did. It didn’t matter much, since you tended to spill your opinion to him the minute he stepped through the door, however it kept your brain occupied.

Your head raises as you recognize the sound of his key in the lock, looking up and over your shoulder just as it opened. “Welcome home. I’m almost done with Emma. It’s quite amusing, less factual, so I’m not sure if you’ll like it, but it’s good.” You glance back down at the pages as you stick a receipt in the fold of the book, shutting it before continuing. “It’s about a matchmaker named Emma. She thinks she’s the best at it, especially because she set up the governess and a wealthy widower, but she ends up missing all of the signs that the men she’s matching are into her.”

As you speak, Spencer takes his satchel off, laying it on the armchair near the front door before slowly making his way towards his couch. A smile pulls at his lips as his fingers work to undo the buttons on his wrists, brow raising slightly. “You have been reading quite a bit since you settled in here.”

A soft huff leaves your nose as you settle back into the cushions, watching as he perches himself up onto the back of the leather couch. It feels wrong to be so comfortable in an apartment that’s not your own, but it’s almost impossible to not feel soothed by the dark wood that makes up his desk and bookshelves, which were stacked with books upon books of all different genres. The verdun color of the walls alongside the sets of patterned couch pillows and comfortable throw blankets were ten times better than the impersonable decorations of the hotel room you had lived in for two weeks.

“Well, you don’t have a TV, and you can’t play chess by yourself.” There’s a pause, and then you speak again. “Unless you’re you. And I’m not,” you add, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them.

He folds the edges of his sleeves back towards himself, pushing up the fabric up to his elbows, revealing his forearms slowly. “Playing chess by yourself is actually the best way to learn how to play and hone your skills. Many professional chess players, such as Bobby Fischer, often play chess alone. It helps you learn the game and discover what type of player you are. It gives you more time to focus on your moves so that, in an actual chess match, you don’t run out of time before you know what to do.”

You toss the ballpoint pen in your hands at his chest, huffing in mock irritation as he easily catches it and tosses it back to you. “Good thing I’m not looking to switch career paths anytime soon, hm?” Your brow quirks slightly, your amusement apparent only in that little movement.

“That it is.” He responds, still holding a soft smile as his coffee-colored eyes soften around the corners edges. His gaze averts downwards at his fingers as he starts to tug on them, growing sheepish. “How have you been?” 

Despite the vagueness and normalcy of the question, you immediately know what he’s referring to, suddenly finding the loose threads on the blanket over your lap very interesting. “Better,” you admit, seeing no reason to lie. “The nightmares aren’t as bad as they were back at the hotel, but they’re not gone. The panic comes and goes.”

Slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll spook you, he stands back up, moving around the couch before settling a cushion away from you. He leans back against the arm of the couch as he starts working at loosening his tie, pulling it over his head before laying it on his coffee table. “Do you want to talk about it? All aspects of trauma can be lessened by communicating it to a trusted individual. Not necessarily go through it again, like cognitive interviews, but speaking more about the depth of it. How you felt, why you still feel it even after that, the direct cause of feeling like you’re still there.”

Just like that, you’re setting your book aside, knees pulling up to your chest in an attempt to shy away. It’s funny how you can know body language so well and yet not stop yourself from giving yourself away with it. Knees to chest meant a multitude of things, such as defensive posture or an intense interest in wanting to leave conversations or situations. You had to look at the situation as a whole to figure out the exact reason, or the other cues. Hunched back and averted eye contact usually indicated sadness, fear or insecurity. The rub of your own hand against your arm indicated self-soothing. It was all about the context.

Spencer notices quickly, reaching out to brush his fingertips against your kneecap. Despite the soft touch, he doesn’t speak, lips pressing in a harder line as he simply gazes at you. He’s waiting for you to speak, to take in whatever information you’ll give him. 

Looking into his eyes, you realize why people call them ‘puppy dog eyes.’ Glancing into them, you’re ready to spill your guts about just about everything. You’re tempted to tell him about the candy bar you stole when you were in sixth grade, or when you tripped someone in the high school hallway because they kept shoving into you.

“I thought he liked me.” You mumble once you realize you had just been staring at him for the past few moments, plucking at the throw blanket again as you avert your gaze. “But looking back, he was a bit mean. He’d always make these little comments.” You clear your throat as you glance towards the ceiling, blinking quickly to try and avoid the sting of tears. “Like ‘didn’t you wear that shirt yesterday,’ or ‘sure you don’t want to change’?”

As you speak, Spencer’s hand moves to cup your entire kneecap, thumb brushing against the soft spot in the middle. His touch is warm, heating up the skin underneath your sweatpants. He can practically see the words on the edge of your tongue, allowing you to continue. 

Your focus doesn’t stray from the hand on your knee as you let the words fall out. “He’d knocked on my door. It was normal. Stepped inside, let me kiss him on the cheek. Thinking about it makes me want to gag.” One of your hands lifts to touch your fingers against your mouth, tracing the line of your lips as you remember the feel.

“You can feel the change in the room when someone goes from good to bad. I didn’t think it’d be like the movies and shows, where they describe their eyes as darkening or their smile as wicked, but it is. The energy changes. It feels like slow motion.” 

Your breathing picks up as you speak. Spencer’s quick to notice it, body leaning closer towards you, like he’s prepared to catch you if you fall. Your lips part in an attempt to speak again, but the words are swallowed by a soft sob. Before you know it, you’re tumbling down a hill, heart beating faster and breathing growing quicker.

Memories, the science that comes along with them, are all one hell of a thing. Everything about them has an effect on the brain. Things like sounds, smells, textures, they’re connected to the memories. Meaning if you think about them, if you feel them, you end up right back where you were at that time and place. Like how sunshine on your skin reminds you of days at the park as a young kid, or how the smell of flowers brings you back to the farmer’s market on a Sunday after you just moved to DC. 

Thinking about what led up to you being tied up to the chair, you can feel it. The icy chill of fear that cascaded over your back, the dread that sunk deep in your stomach, even the goosebumps that traveled up your arm. They’re all there. It’s like it’s happening again.

Your vision blurs around the edges as you struggle to take in air, hand grasping at Spencer’s for any type of support. You’re aware of what’s happening, but you cannot stop it, not even as you try to take in air into your nose and out through your mouth. His voice echoes in your head, but it morphs into something different, something distorted.

You’re only brought out of your panic by the feeling of lips on yours.

Your eyes widen at the shock of it, chest still heaving as your breath evens out. Your hand still clutches at Spencer’s as you feel your entire body relax, allowing yourself the comfort of kissing him back.

After your entire body has relaxed, your chest no longer hurting with the strain of lost breath, Spencer pulls away. His eyes are slightly wide as he looks at you, studying your face for any signs of being uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Uhm.” He clears his throat, leaning away from you as he runs his hands through his hair. “Uh, kissing. It releases so-called happy chemicals, such as oxytocin and serotonin, tricking your brain into leaving the panic behind. It also helps you steady your breathing. Nothing else was working so, uh…”

As he trails off, you reach out to grab his hand again, giving it a soft squeeze. “Thank you.” It’s not meant to be a reassurance, but it's close enough. 

You watch as the panic slowly leaves his eyes, settling into only a soft worry, although his cheeks are still dusted with a light shade of pink. “You’re welcome,” he responds bashfully, eyes still looking down at his lap.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as you reach up to brush your tears away, leaning back into the couch again. After a moment of silence, you roll your lips into your mouth before speaking. “Can we go see a movie?”

Spencer’s brows raise in surprise, the lines on his forehead from focusing so much prominent. “Like, at a theater? Are you sure?” He’s still tugging at his fingers as he speaks, head tilting slightly as he assesses all of your body language.

You smile sheepishly at him, body slowly uncurling. “Yeah. I have a tough BAU agent to protect me, don’t I?”

He smiles brightly at that, eyes softening as he glances back up at your face. “That you do.” part two is here.

[clementineinn]

everglow, a head full of dreams

abstract: after a long interpol liaison assignment overseas, Y/N finally returns to the BAU. the day is filled with warmth, laughter, and homecoming — but for spencer reid, there’s an ache that can’t be ignored any longer. he’s loved her from the moment before she left — and now that she’s back, he knows he can’t keep it buried. not for another second.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff

note: i love yearning, slow burn spencer, so bear with me as i continuously churn out these fluffy stories. honestly not too sure how i feel about this one, maybe i'll continue the story? idk. i'm not really liking how it turned out but it might just be because i've reread it too many times, but i just wanted to post it bc i'm having writer's block!!!! kinda struggling with my writing rn, UGH! but anyways, as always, please enjoy, even though i just went on a pessimistic rant lol.

It was late morning, and the bullpen at Quantico hummed with a quiet, restless energy — the kind that filled the air when something was about to happen, though no one quite knew what.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows, striping the desks in warm gold and shadow. The low murmur of conversation drifted through the space, broken now and then by the faint clatter of a mug being set down, the rustle of papers, the soft mechanical hum of the printer across the room.

Hotch had sent out a clipped message that morning — unexpected.

Conference. 10:30.

No urgent case file attached. No coded pre-brief from JJ. Nothing from Garcia’s terminal. Just that — cool and spare. Enough to spark curiosity like static.

Now, ten minutes before the hour, the bullpen had begun to subtly shift — that unspoken way the team always seemed to gather when the center of gravity tipped toward something new.

Coffee cups in hand, files forgotten, they found themselves orbiting naturally toward Spencer’s desk — the usual center point in moments like these.

Morgan leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. Emily settled nearby, her chair tipped back just slightly, one boot hooked around the leg. JJ arrived with a soft thump of her file folder, setting it down before crossing her arms in curiosity. Garcia, bright-eyed and colorful, perched on the corner with a rustle of fabric and the faint vanilla-sugar scent of her latest perfume.

And in the middle of it all — Spencer sat, cardigan sleeves pushed to his elbows, a familiar fountain pen resting idly between his fingers. His notebooks lay open before him — unscribbled, forgotten — as his gaze drifted, unfocused, somewhere far beyond the present conversation.

Above them, the second-story mezzanine stood quiet. No sign of Hotch yet.

The bullpen breathed with waiting — something in the stillness, in the shifting glances, in the undercurrent of soft voices and quiet anticipation, as if the room itself held its breath for whatever would come next.

Garcia, bright-eyed and luminous in a swirl of violet silk, leaned one hip with theatrical flair against the edge of Spencer’s desk, mirroring Morgan’s easy stance. In one hand she held a paper cup, its pale surface scattered with tiny pink hearts, steam curling lazily from the lid like the last breath of a spell.

“I’m telling you,” she declared, eyes wide with certainty, “this is definitely about new equipment. Or tech upgrades. Maybe he’s finally letting me overhaul the databases.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle, stretching back in his chair with casual grace, arms folded across his broad chest. A slow shake of his head, eyes gleaming.

“Come on, baby girl — Hotch wouldn’t be this mysterious over hard drives.”

Emily smirked over the rim of her coffee cup, shoulders relaxed, dark lashes catching the late-morning light.

“Maybe it’s a new recruit,” she mused, voice teasing. “Or budget talks. Or... mandatory wellness seminars.”

A collective groan rose from the little circle.

“If it’s more wellness training,” Rossi intoned dryly from his perch nearby — the morning’s Washington Post still folded under one arm — “I’m transferring to cybercrimes.” But the faint, knowing glint in his eyes gave him away.

JJ shook her head, blond waves falling over one shoulder as she gave a rueful smile. 

“He wouldn’t pull us all in just for that.”

Spencer listened — or seemed to — gaze flicking now and then to Morgan, to Garcia’s flurry of color, to Emily’s grin over her coffee. The low rhythm of voices surrounded him, bright and familiar. He heard each word, each teasing lilt — but it was as though the sound reached him through a thin layer of water, slow and distant.

Because beneath it all — beneath the warmth of the room, beneath the soft tap of heels on tile and the rustle of paper — his thoughts circled, always, to her.

Even now — especially now — everything seemed to spiral back to her.

How many months since she’d left? He’d counted them at first, marked the weeks in the margins of his calendar, tracked deployments and return dates like a ritual. Eventually, the numbers blurred — but the ache never dulled.

He caught himself doing it still — absent, distracted in moments like this — wondering what city she was in now. Whether she was safe. Whether she missed them.

Whether she thought of him.

A familiar weight settled in his chest — low and constant, the shape of missing her. He smoothed it down the way he always did, fingers tightening briefly on the pen.

At that moment, Garcia’s voice rang brightly through the air:  “If this is a team restructure meeting, I swear I will riot. Peacefully. In glitter.”

Spencer blinked — half-smiling despite himself. Without looking up from the pen, he murmured softly, voice low and dry: “I’m fairly certain the Bureau has policies against both glitter and riots.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle. “See? Even the good doctor’s ready to shut you down, baby girl.”

That pulled a faint, crooked smile from Spencer — the corners of his mouth lifting, then fading.

Garcia pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “So much logic in one room. It’s exhausting.”

The conversation drifted on — light, easy.

Spencer leaned back in his chair, gaze resting somewhere beyond the curve of the room — past the windows, past the moment.

“Where is Hotch, anyway?” Morgan asked, glancing toward the mezzanine — one brow lifted, voice curling with curiosity.

The question hovered in the air — unanswered — as the little circle fell into a brief pause.

And then —

The elevator chimed.

Soft — an ordinary sound, easily lost in the low hum of the bullpen — but in that moment, it seemed to echo just a fraction longer than usual. A faint, suspended note, bright against the stillness.

No one moved at first. No one looked.

And then — footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. The familiar cadence of heels on tile — a crisp, rhythmic sound that drifted through the open space with almost hypnotic clarity.

It was a sound they all knew — had known. A sound that once threaded through their days so easily it hardly registered at all.

Until it had been gone.

And now — now it returned — unmistakable.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Before he quite realized it, his gaze lifted — drawn instinctively across the bullpen, past the edge of his desk, toward the entryway — toward the source of that sound.

And there — framed in the soft wash of light from the corridor beyond — she stood.

For a moment, the entire bullpen seemed to still. The air shifted — the edges of the room blurring faintly, as though the world had drawn a breath and forgotten to release it.

She moved forward — unhurried, composed — the easy grace of someone who had walked this path a thousand times before.

Her hair — soft, undone, loose in a way that seemed both effortless and deliberate — brushed her shoulders in a gentle wave. The delicate planes of her face caught the light — the elegant slope of her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the fullness of her mouth touched with the faintest flush of rose. Her lashes cast fine shadows against her skin.

And her eyes — God, her eyes — quiet and clear and steady, the kind of gaze that could both undo and anchor a man. There was a knowing there — something older, softer, as though she had seen too much and still chosen gentleness.

She wore simple, perfect lines — a fitted black knit top that framed her collarbones with spare elegance, sleeves pushed just past her wrists. Slate-gray slacks, soft in their drape, skimming long legs with easy movement. Black low heels, no louder than a sigh against the tile.

No badge, no blazer, no ostentation — just her.

And in that moment — her presence filled the room more fully than any arrival could.

The hum of the bullpen seemed to fall away — voices dimming, motion pausing, as if drawn into the quiet gravity of her entrance.

Spencer’s breath caught — sharp in his chest — and for one fragile second, he could do nothing but look.

She’s here.

She tilted her head faintly, one brow lifting in the subtlest tease — mouth curving with a flicker of amusement.

“You guys always this jumpy in the mornings?”

For a single breath — no one moved.

It was as if the air itself had thinned — caught somewhere between heartbeats.

Then — the spell broke.

A bright, delighted gasp: “Oh my god — Y/N!”

Garcia was the first to move — coffee nearly forgotten, her cup teetering dangerously on the edge of Spencer’s desk as she flew forward in a whirl of color and perfume.

Before anyone could so much as blink, she had Y/N wrapped in a fierce, breathless hug — arms tight, voice bubbling over.

“You didn’t tell us—!”

Emily was close behind, laughter rising as she caught Y/N’s other arm in a quick pull, drawing her in.

“How long— when— what—?” JJ’s voice chimed through the tangle of greetings, her smile wide and bright as she reached in mid-hug, the words tumbling over themselves in joy.

And then — Morgan.

A deep, familiar whoop split the air as he strode forward, easy grin wide, hands outstretched. Without hesitation, he swept Y/N off her feet — a half-spin, effortless and exuberant.

“Look who’s back in the big leagues!”

The bullpen rippled with warmth — the sound of it filling every corner.

Even Rossi — leaning back against the edge of a nearby desk, arms folded with casual grace — let a rare smile soften his features.

“It’s about time,” he said, voice low but warmly sincere.

The bullpen bloomed with joy — wide and irrepressible, the kind of warmth that filled a room from the inside out. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite. It was the deep, unguarded welcome reserved for one of their own — a missing piece returned to its place.

Voices overlapped, laughter spilling into the air. The small crowd folded around her in an instant — hands reaching, arms pulling her close, greetings tumbling over one another in the rush to be heard.

Everyone — except Spencer.

He stood more slowly — as though the very act of moving had weight. His legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him, breath caught somewhere in his chest. A wild, heady thrum of blood rushed in his ears — the rhythm of a heart that couldn’t quite catch up to the moment. For one long second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again — words crowding his throat, too many all at once, none of them enough.

She was here.

Not an echo through Garcia’s screen. Not a line of text in a quiet after-hours message. Not a passing update on some distant, classified case.

Here.

And for one dizzy, breathless beat — all he could do was stare. As though the very sight of her might dissolve if he blinked too fast — a trick of the light, too fragile to trust.

She glanced up — mid-hug with Garcia, arms still looped around her friend’s shoulders — a bright laugh just beginning to bloom at the corner of her mouth.

And then — her gaze caught his. Across the distance, across the bright scatter of voices, the blur of motion — her eyes found Spencer’s.

The shift was immediate.

Something in her expression gentled — softened at the edges, the brightness folding inward to something quieter, deeper. A warmth that seemed to bloom from beneath the surface. Her smile changed — not the easy grin she’d offered to the others, not the familiar humor of old camaraderie — but something softer. More fragile. The kind of smile meant for only one person in the room.

For a heartbeat, maybe longer, the space between them narrowed to nothing at all.

The background dissolved — voices falling away, color blurring at the edges. The bustling light of the bullpen dimmed to a quiet hum — as though the world itself had drawn in its breath, suspended between one moment and the next.

Just her. Just him.

And in her eyes: something unspoken.

I’m here. I came back.

Spencer’s heart wrenched. The force of it nearly staggered him.

He couldn’t look away.

Before he could so much as move — before breath returned to his lungs — another figure stepped into the frame: Hotch. Calm, composed, steady as a metronome — dark suit sharp against the light, file tucked under one arm. He came to stand at her side — his presence as grounding as it had always been — and with a faint nod, addressed the gathered team.

“Agent Y/N,” he said, voice low but carrying, “has officially requested reassignment back to the BAU.” A pause — the barest flicker of something like approval in his eyes — then, evenly: “She’ll be rejoining the team, effective today.”

For one suspended second — stillness. A collective breath.

And then — the room erupted.

“Finally!” Garcia all but squealed, hands clapping together, her whole face alight with joy.

Emily grinned wide, shaking her head with mock outrage. “And you were going to let us find out like this?”

JJ let out a bright laugh, bumping shoulders with Morgan. “Unbelievable. You’re sneaky.”

Morgan crossed his arms with a wide grin. “About time. We were getting boring without you.”

Even Rossi’s low chuckle threaded through the air: “Welcome home.”

Hotch, unmoved by the sudden swell of sound, allowed a small lift of his brow — the faintest suggestion of a smile — before turning his gaze toward Y/N once more.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said quietly.

But Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.

As though some small, stubborn part of him feared that if he blinked — if he looked away for even a second — she might vanish once more into the space between then and now.

The day unfolded like sunlight through an open window — slow at first, golden, weightless — then all at once.

Outside, the early hours of spring had burned away to a mild, sunlit morning. Bright ribbons of light stretched long across the floor, spilling in from the tall windows, catching motes of dust in the air like tiny, drifting stars. The warmth of it soaked into the bones of the old building — rising from the tile, softening the edges of desks and chairs, gilding stray papers and forgotten coffee mugs with an amber sheen.

And within it all — threaded through light and shadow alike — there was something more.

A hum. A charge. The quiet, unmistakable thrum of happiness — of something righting itself after having tilted off balance for far too long.

She was back.

And with her — the whole rhythm of the day seemed brighter, lighter.

Laughter rose more easily. Conversations wove through the air in fluid threads. Even the usual shuffle of agents passing through the halls seemed softened — as though some unseen weight had lifted from the walls.

For Spencer — it was almost too much.

Too much brightness after too long in the dark. Too much warmth against the old familiar ache that lived in his ribs.

But he breathed it in all the same — heart unsteady, gaze drawn toward her again and again — as though some deep part of him still feared this might all dissolve if he dared look away.

Everywhere she moved, the team seemed to orbit her — drawn instinctively as if by some invisible current.

Wherever Y/N stood — at her desk, by the break room, pausing near a file cabinet — small constellations of conversation formed around her, shifting and bright.

JJ had practically whisked her away into the break room first — one arm looped through hers, mock-stern, laughing. “Alright — details. Now. We’ve been in the dark for months.”

Morgan kept appearing — popping around corners, leaning casually in doorframes — grinning wide, voice rich with teasing questions: “So what do those top-secret types eat for breakfast, huh? Bet it’s not the powdered eggs they give us here.”

Rossi, ever composed, had stepped in with a quiet smile — fingers curling easily around the handle of the old glass carafe — pouring her coffee as though it were ritual, timeless. “Thought you might want the real thing,” he’d said, eyes warm.

Garcia swept in and out like a breeze — a box of cupcakes balanced in one hand, her phone in the other — declaring to anyone who would listen that it was now an unofficial welcome-home party, and she expected attendance.

And Emily — bright and laughing — finally caught her in a loose side hug, her voice low and warm against the hum of the room: “You look good. International life suits you.”

Spencer lingered nearby — his notebook open in front of him, pen resting between his fingers — though the last entry on the page trailed off mid-sentence, the ink gone dry twenty minutes ago.

He hadn’t noticed.

She was here.

Not a name in passing. Not a quiet message on Garcia’s screen. Not a blurred update buried in Interpol case logs he shouldn’t have checked so often. Not a digital echo, a secondhand scrap of her voice carried through someone else’s words.

Just — here.

Breathing the same air. Moving through the light. Smiling — real, present — no longer half a world away.

And he — he could hardly breathe around it.

The bullpen seemed to glow at the edges — bright and diffuse — as though the sunlight itself had shifted toward her, drawn in quiet orbit by the warmth of her presence. It spilled across the floor in long, drowsy ribbons — catching the glint of polished nameplates, skimming across the soft grain of well-worn desks, gilding the corners of open files and stray paperclips with delicate threads of gold. Dust drifted lazily in the beams — small, weightless things that turned and tumbled as if the very air had changed its shape around her.

And through it all — winding between light and shadow — the low hum of voices moved like music. Familiar. Intimate. Soft with happiness. A language made not of words, but of glances and smiles and the deep, unspoken ease of being home again.

Spencer caught fragments of conversation as they wove past him, his gaze straying again and again toward where she stood — framed by the others, light in her hair.

“Yeah — Interpol Liaison Assignment. Mostly Europe. A lot of long-term cases, international consults... more airports than I care to remember.”

Her voice — the sound of it — sent a fresh ache through his ribs.

“It was good work,” she added after a pause, voice dipping quieter, smile softening. Her gaze drifted for a moment, something wistful in her expression.

“But…” A breath. “…I missed this. All of you.”

Across the circle, Morgan grinned — arms folded, voice warm with easy affection.

“Well — our gain,” he said. “You kept climbing the ladder — now we get to brag about you.”

Y/N laughed lightly. “Not much ladder left to climb. I just wanted to come home.”

Home. The word twisted something in Spencer’s chest.

He hadn’t spoken to her yet — not really.

Just that one glance — in the doorway, in the hush before the others had rushed forward — the quiet pull of her gaze catching his across the room. A single moment — fragile as spun glass — now tucked carefully away behind his ribs. Since then, with the bullpen alive around her, voices bright, old rhythms rekindled — he had kept to the edges. Watching. Wanting.

Too much, too soon — the ache of it caught behind his breath, impossible to name.

At one point, Y/N stepped out of the break room — a fresh coffee cradled between her palms, steam curling soft and white into the sunlit air. She moved with that same easy grace — loose-limbed, quietly self-possessed — a familiar rhythm that made Spencer’s chest ache. Without seeming to notice, her path angled toward his desk — a pause, a breath of stillness in the bright hum of the room.

Their eyes met. This time — it lingered. A second. A little more. Something deeper passed between them — not loud, not declarative — but certain all the same.

“Hey,” she said softly, voice warm — low enough that it seemed meant for only him.

Spencer looked up — breath catching, heart kicking against his ribs.

He opened his mouth — found it dry. He swallowed — forced a breath past the tightness in his chest. “Hey,” he managed, voice quiet. “Welcome back.”

Her smile tilted — slow, fond, something in it that caught and held. “Thanks.”

She looked — for one flicker of a moment — as though she might say more. Her gaze lingered, lips parting —

But just then, Garcia swept through the room in a swirl of bright fabric, trailing a thin tangle of ribbons in one hand, announcing something about cupcake displays — and the moment scattered like leaves in a breeze.

The ache settled deeper in Spencer’s ribs — warm and heavy, like sunlight pooling in a place long starved of light.

He knew this day was for them — for all of them. For the team, the laughter, the easy folding back into old rhythms. It wasn’t the time to pull her aside. Not yet. And yet —

The hours drifted by in waves of brightness — voices and footfalls and the soft hush of papers moving beneath careful hands — and all through it, he found himself looking up without meaning to. 

Again and again — as though the very air in the room carried her shape.

The sound of her laugh — low, rich, colored by something softer now. The shape of her voice weaving through conversations — a thread of familiar music. The curve of her mouth when she teased Morgan, the glint in her eye when she nudged Emily mid-joke. The easy tilt of her head, the slight catch of her hair at her shoulder as she moved.

The bullpen seemed to hum at the edges — bright with a different kind of light — as though her return had altered the very current of the space.

And Spencer — he remembered every version of her.

The sharp, brilliant one who could outthink anyone in the room. The quiet one, thoughtful between cases, always half-smiling over the rim of her mug. The steady presence by his side on late nights when the hours blurred.

And this — this new version now — was both familiar and new. Wiser. Sharper at the edges. But still — her.

And he — he was still him.

Still caught somewhere between the wanting and the fear — between the pull of everything unsaid and the weight of years carried alone.

The words pressed at him like a tide — slow and relentless.

I loved you before you left. I love you still. I waited.

But for now — he only watched.

The day drifted into late afternoon — the kind of soft, golden hour when the light slants lower and time seems to slow. 

Sunlight stretched long across the floor, warmer now — honeyed gold pooling between the desks, casting soft-edged shadows across the walls. The hum of conversation had quieted to something looser, more languid — voices dipping, movements slower in the mellow light. 

Files had been filed, coffee cups rinsed and set in neat rows along the counter.

JJ glanced at the clock with a reluctant sigh, gathering her things. “Henry’s got soccer this evening,” she said, looping her scarf around her neck. “But I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Morgan slung his bag over one shoulder, lingering a beat longer than usual. “You sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked. “Gym can wait.”

Y/N smiled, warm. “I’m good. I’ve got a few things to finish up.”

Emily and Garcia hovered nearby, coats in hand — exchanging a glance that held more than a little protest.

“We could stay,” Garcia offered brightly. “Help you settle in — cupcakes and admin, a perfect pairing.”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “Go — really. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Even Rossi, coming down the stairs from upstairs consults, paused with a glance toward her desk — a thoughtful nod.

And so, slowly, the bullpen began to empty — not with the usual rush of closing time, but with the unspoken warmth of a day well-spent, a missing piece restored.

And Spencer — he stayed, notebook still open before him. A file untouched beneath his hand.

But he wasn’t looking at the clock, nor at the quiet stacks of work still waiting. His gaze drifted — again and again — toward the far side of the bullpen. Toward her. He’d told himself it was to finish organizing some paperwork — but his stack of files remained exactly where it had been for the past hour. 

Y/N lingered after the others — a quiet, steady presence in the glowing hush of the near-empty bullpen. She moved with an easy rhythm — unpacking, resettling, reordering small pieces of her space that had been left behind. A drawer sliding open with a soft scrape. Papers shuffled into neat stacks. The quiet click of a pen against the rim of a ceramic mug.

The last spill of sunlight caught at her sleeves, gilding the fine movements of her hands, weaving a soft glow along the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her cheek.

And still — he stayed.

Spencer’s gaze drifted to the clock.

He could leave. He should leave. The hour had tipped toward evening — most of the building hushed now, shadows lengthening at the edges. But the thought of walking away — of leaving her to this space alone, on her first day back — pulled sharp beneath his ribs.

A quiet weight pressed into his chest — insistent.

So he hovered — notebook still open, the pen unmoving between his fingers, resting forgotten in the waning light.

Waiting.

Finally — after what felt to Spencer like an endless moment stretched thin with wanting — Y/N glanced up from her desk. A loose strand of hair had fallen near her temple; she brushed it back with an absent, graceful motion, fingertips trailing lightly against her cheek.

Her gaze lifted — slow, searching — and found him across the quiet bullpen.

Something in her expression softened — a warmth blooming there, quiet and sure.

Her smile unfurled — slow at first, as though drawn from somewhere deeper — the curve of her mouth lifting, high and soft at one corner, deepening into that familiar shape that never failed to undo him. A glimmer of mischief danced at the edges. The faintest hint of dimples appeared — fleeting, delicate — like a secret only just revealed. And then — her voice, low and warm, the words wrapped in that smile: “Are you waiting for me, Doctor Reid?”

The sound of it — the shape of her smile as she said it — struck him with such sudden force that he almost forgot to breathe.

Color rose to his ears — swift, helpless. He opened his mouth — faltered for half a second — then gave the smallest, surest nod.

“Yes.”

Her smile deepened — slow, knowing — the kind of smile that lived somewhere between affection and tease, the kind that could warm a man to his bones. Her dimples ghosted faintly at the corners, eyes bright beneath the soft spill of late afternoon light.

“Well,” she said — voice low, rich with quiet amusement — “if you help me put these away…” She tipped her head, letting the smallest pause hang in the air, just enough to draw him in. “… we’ll both get to leave faster. Sound fair?”

He was on his feet before thought could catch up with motion — breath quick in his chest.

“Fair,” he said — and even he could hear the faint, uneven edge in his voice.

Together — side by side now — they moved around her desk. Small, familiar motions — but softened somehow, slowed by something neither of them spoke aloud. They sorted through scattered files — fingers brushing the edges of well-thumbed pages. They slid books into place along low shelves, the gentle scrape of spines against wood the only sound between them.

Now and then — unintentional, but inevitable — their hands touched. Barely there at first — a passing graze of fingertips. Then again — the soft press of knuckles, warm skin meeting skin for a breath too long to be entirely accidental. Each contact sent a bright flicker through Spencer’s nerves — sharp, electric, as though every inch of him had tuned itself to her presence.

The quiet between them thrummed — not empty, not strained — but full, vibrant beneath the surface. Companionable. Steady. And beneath it all — something more.

When the last binder clicked softly into place on the shelf, Y/N exhaled a quiet breath — one of those small, wordless sounds that seemed to settle into the room like a finishing note. 

“Done,” she said, straightening with a little stretch — shoulders rolling back, arms loosening. She reached for her coat and bag, fingers brushing along the back of her chair as she gathered the last few things.

Spencer stood where he was — pulse thick in his throat, heart thudding hard enough that it seemed to echo in his ears.

The soft light had deepened around them now — long bands of gold stretching low across the bullpen, casting the floor in warm, drowsy glow.

She glanced at him — smile tugging faintly at her mouth. “Still keeping me company?” she teased gently, voice soft beneath the hush of the near-empty space.

He swallowed — words tangling.

“Of course,” he managed — and then, after a beat too long: “Didn’t want you to be the last one here.”

Her smile deepened, the kind that caught at the corners of her eyes. “Chivalrous,” she said — voice warm, amused. She slipped her coat on, the fabric falling clean against her frame, and adjusted the strap of her bag over one shoulder.

Spencer forced himself to breathe.

She moved toward the edge of the bullpen — glancing back once with a quiet tilt of her head. “Come on, Doctor,” she said lightly. “I’m officially calling it a day.”

His feet carried him before thought caught up — steps falling into an easy rhythm beside her as they crossed the room together. The hush of their movements echoed faintly in the open space — the last few murmurs from elsewhere in the building fading into quiet. 

At her side — so close now, every breath filled with her nearness — Spencer could feel the words pressing harder against his ribs. It had been building all day — rising with every glance, every soft word, every brush of her hand. He could feel it now — like a storm gathering just beneath his skin — sharp, bright, impossible to ignore.

And yet — beside him, Y/N seemed unaware — or if she noticed at all, only the faintest trace: the way his voice caught, the way his gaze drifted and returned too quickly.

She glanced up at him as they walked, brow lifting ever so slightly.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly — a question folded beneath the words.

He swallowed, pulse kicking hard.

“Just… tired,” he offered — voice thinner than he meant, pulse still racing beneath his skin.

She let the words drift for a beat, then smiled — soft, easy, gaze warm beneath the fall of her lashes.

“Yeah,” she murmured, voice low. “Me too.” A pause — her smile tilting slightly, something quieter beneath it. “But… I’m really glad to be back.”

The words settled into the air between them — warm, certain — and somehow it made the ache in Spencer’s chest bloom all the sharper.

They reached the elevator.

She pressed the call button — the soft chime rising in the quiet hallway, a bright sound against the hush.

Spencer’s breath caught — the weight of everything unsaid closing tight around him. He couldn’t hold it much longer.

The doors slid open — slow, smooth, with a soft mechanical sigh. They stepped inside, just the two of them now, the space small, quiet, close.

Spencer’s pulse pounded in his ears — hard, relentless, as though the very beat of his heart might give him away.

The words pressed higher in his throat — sharp, breathless — no longer some distant ache, but a rising tide he could barely contain.

Next breath. Next second.

He wouldn’t be able to hold them back.

The elevator doors closed — a hush of metal against metal — sealing them in.

The soft whir of machinery faded, leaving behind a silence so complete it seemed to thrum in the air between them.

They stood side by side — two familiar shapes cast against the brushed steel walls — the lines of their reflections blurred and mingling in the dim light.

The quiet pressed close — thicker with each passing second — as if the very air had shifted, grown heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Neither spoke.

Neither moved.

A breath held — stretched thin, trembling at the edges. Spencer’s throat worked. His chest rose, breath shallow and uneven. 

The words clawed their way higher — fierce, unstoppable — scraping at the back of his throat with each beat of his racing heart.

He could feel his hands trembling faintly at his sides — useless to stop it now.

He stared ahead — eyes fixed, jaw tight — knowing he was standing on the edge of something he could no longer step back from.

The ache had risen past longing, past reason — to the bright, unbearable verge of action.

Now, the thought pulsed through him, urgent, wild. Now, or not at all.

And then — impulse overtook thought.

Before he could second-guess himself — before logic could drag him back — Spencer moved.

Hand darting forward, fast, breathless — and pressed the small red button marked EMERGENCY STOP.

The elevator gave a soft shudder — a low, mechanical sigh — and halted mid-floor.

Stillness swept in — sudden, absolute.

Y/N blinked, the movement catching her off-guard, and turned toward him.

“Spencer?”

Her voice was quiet — touched with confusion, the faintest edge of surprise. Her brows drew in softly — a furrow between them, delicate and unguarded — as her gaze searched his face. Her lips parted — as though to ask, to steady the moment — but the words seemed to catch before they reached the air.

The shift in the room — in him — was too sharp, too immediate. Something was happening — something rising between them like a current — and she could feel it now.

The nerves in the air brushed against her skin — light, electric — pulling at her breath, at her heart.

He turned to face her fully — heart hammering so violently it felt as though it might tear free of his chest — nerves raw beneath skin that had gone too tight, too thin to hold any of it in.

Her brows were still faintly drawn — gaze searching, lips parted — the air between them charged and trembling.

“I can’t—”

His voice broke, the first word catching sharp against his throat.

He swallowed — breath ragged, chest rising too fast — tried again: “I can’t not say it anymore.”

Her eyes widened — something in them catching and deepening — but she said nothing. The moment held — bright, unbearable — as though the space itself had narrowed down to a single, burning point between them.

And then the words broke loose.

They came in a rush — raw, breathless, tumbling past restraint — too fast to stop now, too sharp to soften:

“I loved you before you left.”

His voice shook — low, frayed, as though dragged from the deepest part of him.

“I thought maybe— maybe if you were gone long enough, I’d move on. Forget. Or… or at least learn how to live with it.”

A harsh breath — head shaking once, fierce, broken.

“But I didn’t.”

Another breath — sharper now, ragged edges rising beneath the words: “I couldn’t.”

The confession twisted out of him — building, breaking: “I asked Garcia for updates every week — every single week — until even she started looking at me with pity.”

His hands had begun to shake — fingers flexing, useless at his sides.

“Every day, really— some days twice, three times— I just— I needed to know. I needed to know you were safe.”

A breathless laugh — hollow, aching:

“I made her hack into the Interpol Liaison logs. I knew what cities you were in even when I wasn’t supposed to. I memorized the dates of your deployments, your rotations. Every time you flew out — every time you landed — I knew.”

The words were tumbling faster now — heat rising in his face, in his chest — years of longing and restraint fracturing at the seams.

“I thought about you every morning,” he gasped, voice trembling. “Every night. Every time my phone buzzed I thought — maybe it’s her — maybe she’ll call—”

A sharp breath — and then the last broke from him, hoarse:

“I—”

But the words choked off, chest too tight to finish.

He stood trembling — gaze locked on hers — every muscle pulled taut, breath coming fast and uneven.

He had said it.

Finally.

All of it — ripped loose, bare and bleeding in the open space between them.

And Y/N —

She stared at him — lips parted, breath catching audibly now — as though the weight of what he’d given her had struck too deep to move. Something burned behind her eyes — deep, bright, unspoken — rising to the surface, fierce and fragile all at once.

The air between them cracked — the moment stretched to the breaking point — breathless, unbearable.

Her eyes — still locked on his — shone now, wide and burning, mouth parted on a breath that never quite formed a word.

And Spencer —

Something in him finally snapped.

A surge — a reckless, all-consuming need — rose up from somewhere deeper than thought, deeper than breath — a force that obliterated everything but the aching pull of her standing there before him.

He moved — fast, unstoppable — hands catching her shoulders, dragging her hard into him.

And then — his mouth was on hers.

No hesitation, no gentleness — just a crash of lips to lips, heat and breath and desperate, reckless want.

The force of it sent her stumbling back — but even as her spine hit the cool steel of the elevator wall, Spencer’s hand came up fast — cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair to shield her from the impact — as though some fierce, protective part of him couldn’t bear for her to feel even the smallest hurt.

A faint gasp broke from her lips — not from pain, but from shock, from breathless surprise — from the wild, consuming heat of him.

And then — he was kissing her again — harder, deeper — no space, no air, nothing but this.

He swallowed the sound with his mouth — not daring to stop, not daring to let a single inch of space fall between them now that he had her.

His hands tangled in her hair — fingers twisting in the soft strands, pulling just enough to tip her face up beneath his — mouth slanting harder against hers, teeth grazing, lips parted wide.

Her hands came up in a rush — fisting in the front of his cardigan, dragging him closer — as though she would climb inside him if the laws of the world would only allow it.

Breath collided — hot, uneven, hungry — between kisses that deepened with every ragged pull.

Her lips — soft, swollen, trembling beneath his — moved with him, against him — gasps breaking loose only to be caught again, swallowed whole.

Their noses brushed — the angle of her jaw sharp beneath his palm, the shape of her mouth opening wider for him, breath shaking between every frantic meeting of lips and tongue.

Teeth caught — hers sinking sharply into the soft swell of his lower lip — not enough to break skin, but enough to tear a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest.

A sound he didn’t know he could make — half gasp, half growl — ruined, desperate.

And then he was gone.

A surge of heat shot through him — blinding, primal — and in the next heartbeat, he slammed her harder against the wall — body pinning hers in full, no space left between them, the sheer force of it dragging a sharp gasp from her mouth.

But not pain — never pain — only shock, only wild, breathless want.

And he swallowed it — devoured the sound with a bruising kiss, lips crashing to hers again, open and hungry and without mercy.

The heat between them flared — burning now — a helpless, relentless tide.

His hands slid down — hard and possessive — gripping her waist, her hips, fingers digging in tight enough that he could feel the shape of her bones beneath the fabric.

Tighter — closer — more.

If he could have dragged her through the wall, he would have — anything to close the impossible ache of distance that still lived inside him.

She was gasping now — broken, high little sounds spilling between them — breath catching in her throat as her fingers clawed into his hair, fists tightening until the roots burned.

Every pull, every desperate grip only feeding the fire in him — pulling a fresh, wrecked sound from his throat.

Her head tipped back, mouth opening wider beneath his — trembling, hungry — letting him kiss her deeper, harder, until he was half-mad with the feel of her lips, her teeth, the breath she couldn’t catch.

“Spencer—”

The sound of his name — wrecked, high, barely shaped — shattered what little remained of his restraint.

He caught it with his mouth — crushed it — swallowing her voice in a kiss so deep, so savage it stole what little air remained between them.

Tongue sliding against hers — breath ragged — teeth scraping — hands everywhere now, sliding up, curling into her back, gripping her shoulder, burying again in her hair — anchoring her to him as though the sheer force of need alone might collapse the years they’d spent apart.

Their noses bumped, dragged sideways, breaths tearing loose, uneven and wild —

More.

He couldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t stop — not until he’d kissed her so deeply, so completely that the ache in his chest finally broke apart beneath it.

Not until she was gasping against his mouth — trembling in his arms — her nails dragging down the back of his neck with helpless, reckless need —

Not until there was nothing left of either of them but this — lips and teeth and breath and years of longing, burning wild and bright between the steel walls of the elevator.

Time fractured — the small space between them burning, pulsing with a heat neither could withstand.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was everything.

Every unspoken word. Every sleepless night. Every breathless moment spent wanting and waiting and knowing they could not have — until now.

Now, the dam had broken. And there was no going back.

When the kiss finally broke — if it could even be called a break — it wasn’t by choice.

It was because neither of them could breathe.

Because lungs burned and chests heaved and their bodies trembled so violently it was a wonder they were still standing.

Spencer’s forehead dropped to hers — too dizzy to hold himself upright — breath tearing ragged from his throat.

Her hands were still tangled in his hair — trembling, clutching — and her face, flushed and wet, tilted helplessly up to his.

They were both shaking — wrecked — skin damp with sweat, tears mingled where cheeks brushed, lips swollen and raw from the sheer violence of what had just passed between them.

Neither could move.

Neither could speak.

They stood there — locked against the cool steel of the elevator wall — heartbeats crashing wildly in their chests, breath gasping against each other’s skin.

Spencer’s hands were splayed against her back — fists still curled in her top, holding on as though if he let go for even a second, the world itself might split apart beneath them.

Her breath hitched — a high, shaking sound that caught in her throat.

Slowly — slowly — she dragged in a trembling gasp of air.

And then — voice so faint it barely rose above a whisper, broken and wrecked in the quiet space —

“Maybe…”

Another breath — another tremble — her cheek brushing against his, damp with tears, mouth still parted, lips flushed and swollen beneath the faintest catch of a breath.

“… maybe we should… get out of here…”

A soft, dazed sound slipped from her throat — a ghost of a laugh, breathless, half-wrecked —

“… before Garcia starts wondering why we’ve been stuck for twenty minutes.”

The words barely reached him — muffled, distant — lost in the blood still roaring in his ears, in the breath he couldn’t catch, in the wild rush still hammering through his chest.

For a moment he could only stare — blinking, dazed, heart crashing.

And then — the smallest breath of a laugh broke loose from him — sharp, wrecked, awed — as if he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real, couldn’t believe the feel of her still trembling beneath his hands.

The sound tangled with his next breath — jagged, uneven — as he leaned in again, lips brushing hers once more.

Not a kiss — not quite — just the barest press — soft, aching, impossibly full — as though he needed to feel her again, needed to be sure she was still there beneath him.

“I don’t care,” he whispered — voice hoarse, torn, shaking with the force of everything still rising in him.

And neither did she.

At last — with fingers that trembled faintly — Spencer reached out, releasing the small red button beneath his hand.

The elevator gave a soft jolt — a faint hum rising as the emergency stop disengaged.

The car began to descend once more — slow, smooth — but neither of them moved.

Not yet.

Spencer still stood close — chest barely lifting with shallow breath, hands resting at her waist, fingers splayed wide, reluctant to loosen their hold.

Y/N’s hands lingered in his hair — fingers soft now, slow, unhurried — as though neither of them could quite bear the thought of breaking the fragile space between them.

His forehead still leaned faintly against hers — breaths mingling in the small hush of the car, both of them flushed, damp with tears and sweat, trembling in the aftermath of something too large to name.

When he finally drew back — just barely, just enough to see her — his eyes were dark, soft, shining with a rawness she had never seen in him before.

Open — utterly unguarded.

Voice low, hoarse, still uneven:

“I missed you.”

The simple truth of it struck through her like a blade — sharp and bright, pulling a soft, helpless ache from her chest.

Her lips parted — breath catching — before her own voice broke free, quiet and full:

“I missed you, too.”

Spencer still hadn’t moved.

His hands remained at her waist — fingers curled tight, thumbs pressed deep into the sharp curve of her hip bones, as though if he loosened his grip by even a fraction she might simply slip away again.

She could feel it — the heat of him through the fabric, the strain in his hold — the faint tremor still running through his fingers.

A breathless sound caught in her throat — half a laugh, half a sigh — lips curving faintly despite the wreck of her heart.

And then — something shifted.

Spencer’s breath hitched — chest rising too fast — eyes flickering down to where his hands still gripped her. 

As though, in that moment, the full weight of what had just happened — the recklessness of it, the years of want breaking loose — crashed into him all at once.

The flush rose quick and high in his cheeks — the faintest spark of his old shyness rising beneath the wreckage of want.

Fingers trembling harder now, caught between holding and releasing, apology and need.

When he finally spoke — voice barely a rasp, breaking at the edges: “I don’t want to let go.”

She drew in a soft, uneven breath — heart thudding so hard it hurt. Her smile faltered — not fading, but shifting — something deeper flickering behind her eyes, pulling the breath from her lungs. Fingers still tangled in his hair, she leaned in just slightly — enough that her forehead brushed his again, lips near his ear.

“Then don’t,” she whispered — voice soft as breath, shaking with truth she couldn’t swallow.

For a moment — the smallest space of time — neither of them moved.

His hands remained tight at her hips — knuckles white — her body held fast against him, the tremble in his fingers betraying just how much he was still drowning in it.

Her breath broke against his neck — warm, damp, trembling.

And still — no part of him wanted to let go.

Not when it had taken this long.

Not after what had just passed between them.

The air hummed with it — that fragile, golden hush — both of them caught, undone, too lost in the aftermath to break away.

The soft chime broke through the quiet — a bright, sharp sound — followed by the slow, mechanical hiss of the elevator doors sliding open.

Cooler air brushed in — a sudden shift, a reminder of the world waiting just beyond.

Both of them blinked — as though surfacing from somewhere too deep, too far beneath the moment.

Spencer’s hands loosened at her hips — reluctantly, fingers still trembling.

Y/N let out a breathless little laugh — half dazed, half bright — voice low and warm against his ear.

“Well,” she murmured, lashes lifting as she glanced toward the open doors, “I guess we can’t exactly live in here.”

That tugged a rough, unsteady breath from his chest — something between a laugh and a groan, eyes dragging over her face like he couldn’t quite stop.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he managed — voice still wrecked, hoarse — but the faintest curve pulled at the corner of his mouth.

She grinned — still breathless, still flushed — one brow lifting, teasing soft and easy between them again.

“You’re going to get me into trouble, Doctor Reid,” she whispered, fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she eased back a fraction. “And it’s only my first day back.”

He huffed a quiet laugh — wrecked, bright-eyed — and stepped with her toward the open doors.

Together — breathless, still too close — they finally stepped out into the hall.

The world beyond the elevator was quiet — hushed, late — the light cooler here, shadows long against the floor.

But something had shifted between them — something that could never be pulled back now.

Spencer’s hand hovered at her lower back as they walked — not quite touching, but near enough that the heat of it ghosted against her spine.

Y/N glanced at him — lips curved, eyes still bright with everything unspoken.

“You know,” she said — voice low, teasing — “if anyone saw us right now…”

She trailed off — the grin in her voice unmistakable.

Spencer huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a groan — hand finally giving in, fingers brushing soft against the small of her back.

“Then I guess,” he murmured — eyes catching hers, dark and soft and wrecked — “they’d finally know.”

Her heart flipped — sharp and warm.

The teasing faltered, just for a breath — replaced by something deeper, something older and more certain.

She smiled — slow, bright — and let her hand slip into his, fingers twining there like it had always belonged.

They walked in silence for a few steps — breath still too fast, skin still tingling — neither quite ready to let the moment fade.

Then — quiet, low, voice still rough from everything he couldn’t say — Spencer spoke:

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at him — brows lifting faintly — that familiar spark rising in her gaze.

“Starving,” she whispered.

His mouth curved — soft, wrecked, utterly undone.

“Come over,” he said — no hesitation, no fear now. Just truth. Just wanting. “I’ll make something.”

Her fingers tightened in his — smile deepening — voice warm as the new light between them.

“Okay,” she said.

And together — hand in hand — they kept walking down the quiet hall, toward whatever waited next.